The Deer I They would fire on three. Red leaves, yellow leaves, green leaves. The shot—like the birth of his son. The leaves. The animal. The son cowered in the bushes. The father took the son’s gun and counted. One through six bullets. The son had not fired the gun.
Toads are unlovely: plump, bumpy, gawkward. But I’ve been fond of them since I was young. Their inoffensive, comical dignity amused me. Gaze into a toad’s lovely golden eyes and you quickly become its friend. Why, then, did I shoot a toad in my backyard when, age twelve, I had
The trees are old in the forest of Arden. They hold many secrets. The greenest grow at the border of the tame world. Supple firs and bendy pines peak above sprawling hardwoods. Tall, wide oaks dot the perimeter charming the senses with song birds and the fluffy-tailed squirrels. Lush moss
the sky was there distorted at the edges but there clear crystal blue his wings burned his mind locked he battled the Plexiglas sky over and again his head bumped hoping for an improbable escape I was afraid his death would stain