I caught the trees asleep at dawn / Final brown fruits… no wind has blown / A late harvest: the hard snap came / Ice built its home. Diadem boughs / Met a new sun, leaves fell like rain…

Abigail Bell drove the grumbling, rattling Power Wagon five residential blocks, dodged a trio of yellow bollard pipes that prevented additional forward movement by vehicles wider than a bicycle…

I remember when my mother made a hill of soft, loose dirt for me to lie upon, a place where I could grow more slowly than a grove of oaks; a place where I was safe from the eyes of gods and men.