Monthly Archives: August 2019

A man stands on oiled chipseal, camera in hand. The highway undulates distantly, nearly straight, as heat-shimmered dips lend the appearance of road-fracture, shifted along a series of faults.

In response to a Middle English facsimile of the Gospel of Luke The minims of textualis crowd themselves, ascenders aplenty but descenders few, into Wycliffe’s words of Gabriel to Mary:

The nameless cream-colored tom creeps quickly up and crouches motionless, knowing that the bowl of the birdbath keeps him concealed from the finch which perches on the far side, dipping its beak into the pool of clear water—dipping and preening.

A valve by any other name would not check love less sweetly: