Barbara Seaman

Men planted mushrooms in our sky, she says, with much white boiling of thunder-and seeds, many seeds that rained down here and here and here and, after time, grew up into children. This one, she says, her sleeves rolled elbow-high for the work of holding him. Watch the wrinkled linen of her face . . . . Continue Reading »

Not that light falls unbroken like snow falling on snow but that the sky flies open like an eye. Today, an astonishment of blue and one gray scissortail who is sharpening his passion for heights. When did motion become invisible? Faster than my retina can . . . . Continue Reading »