Outside my window, the pale forearms of sea mist climb trees with childlike vigor. Smoke skims from chimneys, There is nothing to depend upon, except each impossible change. A tabby hunts a sparrow, whose beak plunders a rooftop...
To walk on soil is to walk on the dead. As February draws to a damp close, I take a wooden stake and a metal rasp from my father’s carpentry collection in the garage and head out into the valley. Our house, perched on the crest...
“I don’t want to play soccer this year,” Charlie told his father, who coached the team. “Why not?” “Because I don’t like soccer.” “But you signed up again last year. You’ve played for two years.” “But last year I...
The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar, is the test of their power – Toni Morrison
