by Thomas Rabbitt
The blimp floating over takes as long as 1948.
On Tacoma Street, in every backyard, the kids stare
At the backs of their parents’ tilted heads.
This is the very last good game of World War Two.
The grown–ups peer into the canopy of oaks.
by Campbell McGrath
A great green hand reaches up to the Florida sky.
Circled in palms, ringed by bowers of white bougainvillaea,
its flesh is wrought of mellifluous iron, color
of olive leaves, from which emerge a human multitude
transfigured to forms of tortured supplication, . . .
by Steve Featherstone
The first: a .22 caliber revolver in an unlocked desk drawer, behind a stack of old utility bills. I discovered it while rifling through the desk for change to put in the soda machine at the gas station. It was dull gray with a narrow black plastic handle that slid easily into my palm. I was eight years old, and I had never held a real gun before.
by Barry Lopez
The two gentlemen behind me are speaking fervently of a mining venture, which holds for each of them a promise of long-sought wealth; but my attention is drawn, again, to the one hundred macaws in the garden.
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