The Great Egret

by Karen J. Weyant This time of year, in the middle of October’s bright colors, anything white in nature seems out of place: a McDonald’s napkin, a ...

The Pickieterno

by Stephen Rutt It had died in the past hour. Severed, crimson-fresh, and glassy eyed. Soft to touch — pre rigor mortis. I’d pulled it out of the long grass und...

Convergences

by Michael Engelhard Everything is flowing—going somewhere, animals and so-called lifeless rocks as well as water. —John Muir, My First Summer in the Sierra (19...

Mea Culpa

by Jane Routh Today I killed a pheasant. No bumps under the wheels; in the mirror it lay on the road plump and shiny, one small black feather floating away. It ...