Sometimes there are no words.
The secret lies in brushing hair, a hundred and one strokes, down the cascade, long as a mare’s tail. It is carried in the singing learned from children, that floats like so many sparrows through the open window of the … Continue reading
Years ago I fell into a certain rapture with old farm machinery rusting in the brittle grass, the brown sweep of a plow distracted by timothy and bedstraw, a horse-drawn harrow like a hand cupping the ground, their wooden parts … Continue reading
Listen. To the language of lichen on stone, the twist of a birch branch, leaves cart-wheeling across the ground, the dry rattle of spent flowers. The flame of sumac has a sound. You can hear the dark line of tide … Continue reading
The largest member of Team Cream is a big white draft horse named Gambler. We took a cart ride around the farm this past weekend, apples swaying on the branches above our heads, the smell of fermentation in the air, a jagged line of geese in the sky … Continue reading