Mark S. Bauer

Leaf-laden lately, beech limbs once reached the ground, swaying. Lightened now, choreic, bare, they twitch. An abandoned wasp nest scuds across the yard. The nest is dashed against the garden shed and drops to rest among discarded flowerpots, each smashed to shards so long ago the sun has bleached . . . . Continue Reading »

I watch the dust motes dance, be tossed on eddies in the sun-streak in its minute advance across the meetinghouse floor then see the gnarled man rise and move into the sun to speak with a glint in his eye I’ve not seen before . . . . Continue Reading »