shoveling wind-whipped snow, yet still, from the apple tree, chick-a-dee-dee-dee.
From here to Idaho vast empty white miles of snow— my coffee, black.
The little people were not welcome. But they came. They sat in the rocks of the Arnie’s wall, trilling and ducking into the gaps between the rocks whenever Arnie opened the door or came around the corner of his house. They had turned the gaps in the rocks into doorways to their homes. They ate … Continue reading Arnie’s Wall