I drop a glove in the puddle of rainwater,and bending to remove itsee the reflection of my mother's figure,see the levy of years--the unexpected wither of skinas if waking to seethat it has snowedovernight. c. B. L. Bruce From "At Henry Cowell State Park, Early Winter" from my award-winning collection "The Weight of Snow," first [...]
Life in isolation during the coronavirus pandemic got me thinking of the time I spent 28 days in a small cabin in the remote forests of Northern California. I wrote about my time there, reflecting on the writing process, in my short memoir "28 Days of Solitude." Check out the newly refreshed edition, available now [...]
NORTH For a moment in the calm,between gusts of wind:the faint push of air beneath wing.The northern harrier drifts abovea flowering field of yellow mustard. Bobbing among the eddies,the murre learn centuriesof the waterwork and currents,driven unthinking by whatwe cannot know. Farther still, the north horizonis choked with fog;the clover lies trampled by salt windalong [...]
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