Poetry
The morning’s broad and yellow, enough fluttering grass for ten thousand ankles, and with a trail that leads to a lake as blue as its patron sky. I climb the hill to shrink the valley below, turn houses to dots, and then loses below all together as trees close in from all sides. I feel ten years’ old though I’m much older, but I drop the purpose of the day so I may fritter away my time, by the trickle of a stream, up a tamable cliff, in the presence of a wild turkey that stares at me as if it can’t believe I didn’t fly up here. But then it’s time to leave. Hunger creeps in. I’m not quite the Daniel Boone who can live off the fruit of the forest. Civilization opens back up to the growl of my stomach.
THE UP AND THE DOWN JOHN GREY
There’s the town. And the dilapidated houses. The sagging fences. The beat-up cars. Nothing that says much for humanity. But the table is laid. I’ve tasted the best of what the woods have to offer. However, nourishment comes in all kinds.
NEW READER MAGAZINE
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