By Arvilla Fee 



a butterfly landed on my arm,
hitched a ride in the rain;
butterflies don’t fly in the rain,
but this one stayed
in spite of April’s tears
 
a cardinal perched on a branch
in the dead of winter,
cranberry red against the snow,
it sang like tender spring
though December shivered
 
an orb hovered in a photo,
phantom-bright behind the fog,
it didn’t matter that the sun
had lost its way, the orb
held your crooked smile

dawn woods
lifting the sun
love songs



eclipsing
new moon
a murder of crows



sheep tearing
the mountain air
early dusk

 

pale moonlight
resting in
white tulips



warm breeze
a lawnmower humming
dandelion confetti
 


the faint reflection
of a soaring buzzard
snowdrops

Morning is a wolf howl
in northern Canada
before loons, and after
the moon collapses
into clouds, light
spilled like oil
on a garage floor
where a polite neighbor 
quietly passes.

The waiting has its voice—
part wisdom, part
impatience—a catch
in the throat, and always
a low, persistent moan 
that feels new.

Maybe what the pack feels
moving with stealth
but somehow assured
through a forest
waiting light.

Maybe what a neighbor thinks, 
for a moment, before 
dismissing thoughts 
for the sake of neighborliness.
Another pack.

Maybe the dripping moon
and the stolid forest 
and gathering loons 
on black water, 
as always, make peace
with the passing
of darkness.

I fetched my binoculars from the cabinet over the sink when the white car pulled into the driveway of the house next door. I focused on the car and watched a woman wearing blue shorts and a white tank-top get out. She looked trim and fit and showed some muscle. An athlete, I thought. Maybe does some running and weightlifting. I put her age as mid to late thirties. I liked what I saw. She looked…interesting.
	
A boy about ten and a girl about the same age got out of the car, then a small yellow dog hopped out. They came around the car, stood with the woman and looked down the street. A big orange moving van with a man behind the wheel rolled up, pulled into the driveway and stopped behind the white car. The man got out and approached the woman and the kids. After a brief conversation, they walked up to the house. The man pulled a key from his pocket, opened the door and they went in. 
	
I put the binoculars on the kitchen table and wondered why my new neighbors had come to Rock Springs. We’re a dying lumber town with an aging population and our economy is in the toilet. There aren’t any jobs now that the lumber mill has shut down and all the big trees worth logging have been cut. Young people are fleeing Rock Springs, going to towns and cities where there are futures, places where they can build a life, prosper, and raise a family. 
	
People looking to the future don’t come to Rock Springs.
	
But me? I’m locked in. I’m never leaving Rock Springs. I’ve got roots here. I’m respected, a local hero to many of the folks in town. I led the boys’ high school basketball team to two state championship titles during my junior and senior years. Lots of people remember that. Even though those championships were thirty years ago, they give us something to brag about, something to make us feel good in spite of the hard times pressing on us now. A few years ago, the town put up a big sign bragging about those two state championships. Sometimes you have to cling to the things from long ago to remind yourself that life has its upsides, its moments of glory, when things turn ugly and sour.
	
So, I wondered why these people came here. Were they running from something, or running toward something? Whatever they were seeking, they were not going to find it in Rock Springs. I can guarantee that.

I finished my morning coffee, rinsed the cup, put it in the cabinet and got ready to go to work. I work for the Rock Springs water department reading water meters, repairing them or replacing them when they can’t be fixed. Someday, the town is going to install smart meters and put me out of a job. When that happens, I’ll retire. It won’t be soon though because the town has a hard time raising taxes to pay for replacing infrastructure that is starting to fail. People don’t like their taxes being raised, even if it improves their lives. People are short-sighted that way, so my job is safe. 
	
The moving van was still parked behind the white car when I got home after work. The van’s rear doors were open and it was empty. The neighbors had moved in. 
	
My kitchen window faces the kitchen window of the house next door. The curtains were open and I could see the woman opening and closing cabinets as she put things away. I poured a glass of scotch and sat at the kitchen table and watched without using the binoculars.
	
The woman paused, put her hands on her hips and looked out the window toward my house. I don’t know if she saw me. Could she have sensed me watching her? She must have because she closed the curtains.
	
I finished the scotch, poured some more and thought about the last family that lived in the house next door, a couple with two girls, one thirteen, the other seventeen. They were a happy family by all outward appearances when they arrived in Rock Springs. They could have been poster material for the normal, everyday family living the dream in small-town America. 
	
Then the seventeen-year old girl disappeared.
	
Her disappearance sent shock waves through the town. People didn’t know what to think. Nothing like that had ever happened in Rock Springs and people didn’t know what to do. The parents hounded the police relentlessly, urging them to find her. 
	
Search parties combed the town, but no trace of the girl was found. Initially, the police thought she might have been kidnapped, but the family didn’t have the financial resources to pay and no ransom note was ever received, so that squashed the kidnapping theory. Then the rumors began to circulate. A few of her classmates said she hated living in dumpy little Rock Springs and would do anything to get away from it. Some of her classmates said she hooked up with a man and just like that, ran away with him. 
	
That is not what happened.
	
Being the next door neighbor, the police questioned me. I know the cops, of course. Many of them grew up in Rock Springs. The questions they asked me were generic: did I see any unfamiliar cars or men lurking in the neighborhood prior to the girl disappearing; did I see or hear any violent behavior in the house. Those kinds of questions. Of course, I said no, which was the truth. 
	
The family left town several weeks after the daughter disappeared. The case is still open, but the cops are wasting their time. The girl will never be found.

I sat at the kitchen table and thought about going over and introducing myself to the new neighbors, but decided against it. Too early. They needed time to settle in, get comfortable, get their house in order and feel like it was theirs, like they belonged in it. Introductions could wait a few days. We’d get acquainted soon enough.

In the late afternoon four days later, I knocked on their door. The woman answered. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Bob Wyman. I live next door. Welcome to Rock Springs.” I handed her the fruit-and-candy basket I had the local grocery store cobble together. 
	
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why, thank you. How thoughtful.” She took the basket. “I’m Susan Starker.” A man walked up behind her, looked over her shoulder and said, “Hi.”
	
“This is my husband, Brian Starker,” Susan said.
	
“Nice to meet you,” Brian said. We shook hands. I pointed to two bikes on the grass. “You have kids.”
	
“Yes,” Susan said. “Matthew and Julia.”
	
“What brings you to Rock Springs?” I looked at Brian. “Work?” 
	
“No,” he replied. “I work from home. Financial industry. No need to go to an office. Everything is online these days.” He smiled, seemed friendly. “We got tired of the city, the crowds, the congestion and the traffic. We wanted to find a small, quiet town where life isn’t so chaotic.”
	
“Where the kids can ride their bikes on the street without worry,” said Susan. “Rock Springs suits us.”
	
“Rock Springs is quiet, that’s for sure,” I said. “And laid back. Nothing ever happens here.” I smiled and stepped back from the door. 
	
“That’s what we want, a place where nothing happens,” said Brian Starker.
	
“It’s nice meeting you, and thank you for the welcoming gift,” Susan said. “I’m sure we will see each other from time to time.” 
	
“I’m sure of it,” I said as I walked away.

When I got home I poured a scotch and sat at the kitchen table thinking about Susan and Brian Starker. Susan looked fine; tall, lithe, with enough muscle to put up a fight. She was going to be a pleasant challenge, one I anticipated. Brian, however, presented a problem. Even with the kids in school, Brian working from home meant Susan was rarely alone in the house, unless he established a routine that took him out of the house on a regular basis, like a daily run or a regular workout session at the local gym. I would have to wait, let their routines develop. At some point, Susan Starker was going to be alone.
	
I’ll figure it out. I have the time, and Rock Springs is a quiet little town where nothing ever happens.

SNOW MOON

Resting from the light
of the snow moon, 
the night holding space
steady as it slips 
between the lattice
of the deck, ferns 
somewhere framed,
roots threaded 
through earth in prayers
stitched in sunlight.


MID-WINTER

The hush of blackbirds
rising as the clouds rise, 
as the broken jonquils
rise, not quite dead, 
not quite giving in
to the cold ground, 
warm sun on every face.

printed in pink:
sidewalk chalk
was here
 

church stones
where lichen grows...
stained-glass spectrum
 

bicycle leans
against the picket fence
in jail shadows


butterfly’s shadow
flies across my arm
tickle free
 

dilapidated house
returning dust to dust
a poppy blooms

Spring thawing a Great Lakes winter
I give the cabin door a shoulder shove 
as my dog scrambles past
frantic to decipher what transpired here
over wintered months of silent darkness.
 
Sniffing here, snuffing there 
hot on a trail
dives under the plank table
navigating spindly scarred chair legs 
scent goes cold
doubles back, nose to floor, tail high
then freezes
at the old horsehair mattress, snorting
as his front paws stretch out over grayed fabric. 
 
He looks at me, big dumb eyes telling what I figure
happens over winter 
when leaving the door unlocked
beats a broken window 
or worse. I’ve found my courtesy 
is returned by theirs.
 
Memories made of trembling moments 
in a creaky old cabin 
decorated with years-old cobwebs 
and antler racks with stories of their own.
I sincerely hope no hearts were broken here.
 
‘And what else, fool?’ I ask the dog, demanding more
answers about the unseen life this place leads 
while we’re away.
 
Yet, he’s moved on to 
lie in wait in that dark corner
where mice have snuck in 
going on generations now.
 
I build a fire of damp hickory
that hisses and crackles as I
huddle close 
feeling the heat
flush my weary face 
watching the sparks fly.

By Tim Kahl

after Jared Farmer
 

I cannot grow a life that stands in one place
for centuries, so I defer to this earth
with its temporal shifts and cataclysms,
but the bristlecone pulls through, pinching
itself off bit by bit until it is reduced
to a strip of bark. It has mastered the art
of dying slowly. Its resins protect it from
predators and pests. The lignin in its cell walls
provides another layer of defense. Slowly
it retreats to its most stable form as dwarf.
 
Or maybe the daring of the sequoias is preferred.
They grow so fast to win the war for a shower
of light at the canopy top. The water pumped 
to the upper reaches indicates a stout heart,
but gravity can be as fatal as rot. 
 
For the gingkos, scions of endless genesis, 
they never wear down, and the aspens travel 
the mythic underworld to pass the secret of 
their long life from the root mass. No wonder 
the distant ancestors sought the tree as 
the symbol of the birth of life.
 
They knew the worth of an oldenbough,
its myriad strategies for making it through
times that are tough. The temperatures are
rising. The deserts are expanding, and 
the mega-fires incinerate past the point of quit.
The growth of ordinary trees takes over, 
all aligned with the same purpose and reason.
They regenerate but they fail to stoke
the imagination of a time that wasn't so sapient.

A photograph is as thin as the truth:
in front, an image; behind, nothing’s there.
The void is more than lack of mass, or air,
or essence, meaning old age finds in youth,
or randomness. It’s fear that when we act,
desire is nothing, shadows on a screen,
a flickering candle casting its sheen
until it’s out. Then the shade dims to black.
Who hasn’t spoken to a dead loved one
through images? Who hasn’t traced outlines
of faces? Heard a voice, divined the signs?
There’s silence, though, when it’s all said and done.
We never really say goodbye. Until
the likenesses of those whom we loved fade
from memory, they live. We are all made
flimsy as icons stamped on a handbill.

By John Chinaka Onyeche


So many such nights, I am bent like a key. The child is a porcelain egg in the hands of a clock. The realities of home are built from sugar before the jawline of the sea; the coming of the teeth erases the trace of the house built with our wandering feet that are now fossils in the rock of becoming. Some nights are black dogs, and others are drawers full of moths, of laughter and static from not touching the radio bodies of your kids, learning what frequency broadcasts your fear. If this is not the telephone ringing from inside its own coffin; where you hope the echo will answer, but deep down the silence is still stretching, where even the dice have grown feathers and play their tricky tunes to the single photograph of a man wearing a shadow's clothing, who was never developed in the solution of love. Many of such nights walk in on stilts of glass, leaping and begging for a different channel. Such nights are spent burning the screen of a phone, watching the smiling faces of one's kids that the wedding cake has swallowed whole.

Away from the road the firs grow tall,
their dark green needles brush
your face as you pass, your breath
ghosting the branches with mist.
Your feet crack over twigs nestled
in sparkling iced moss
that covers rocks and fallen trees
that once waved with the winter’s howl.
There are no paths to follow,
no signs to show the way,
just a whisper in the cold
of warmer days to come
and the promise of a greener light
when spring sunshine shoulders
the world once more.

By Jerome Berglund


frost flower
under the loop 
creative knotting 



ants on
a grasshopper . . . paying 
the movers
 
 

yellow-bellied 
sapsucker . . . deciphering 
the morning's morse
 


cloud formation 
it always creaks in the 
last few inches 
 
 

water lilies 
in the wind: the pages 
all dog-eared

After the lightning strike, life returns
to the pretense of sameness,
the pool is sealed, like skin
making of itself scar-wax
as years seal in silence, names—
Gaia Pompeia, Marcus Atimetus,
John Mulligan, Mamie Cahill:
who remembers the merchant
or the midwife in an age
glutted on adulation?
Theirs would have been the hands
that dropped a worn coin,
thinking only of restoration
and a safe journey home.
But we've lost the art of valuing
the small votive offering,
our sense of scale has been removed
like a sudden loss of sight.

Leave all, so. These lines will slip
and settle somewhere
in the obscure warmth
of their having once seen light
and carried it, however brief
the moment when health and hope
were twinned, and our lives
became a scratched inscription.

Jennifer Freya Helgeson
 


The sunflowers lean, 
their golden crowns grown heavy with time, 
their yellow petals curling softly inward— 
not in sorrow, but in a kind of prayer.
 
The air hums with endings: 
crickets, dusk, the slow unraveling of heat. 
Yet within each dark seed is tomorrow’s field, 
a quiet continuation.
 
I stand among them, 
feeling the hush of late summer, 
the pause before the turning. 
And I remember Whitman’s words: 
‘Happiness, not in another place but this place...
not for another hour, but this hour’—
a gentle reminder that the present is enough.
 
If life must bend toward dusk, 
let it do so like the sunflower: 
steadfast, 
rooted, 
its yellow brightness bowed, 
trusting the earth to carry it onward.

By Richard Luftig  



An unfilled wish is the world’s way
— Japanese proverb
 

In this life he has learned to interpret
any form by its negative space, like the white,
 
no-there between geishas in a woodblock print.
But what he does not yet understand  
 
is how everything is connected, yugen, the one,
like a Japanese vase that holds a single sprig of jasmine, 
 
the warmth of a pear, or how two birds can fly 
so close to one another that they seem to possess 
 
only one set of wings. He remembers
it being that way with her, like two, white birches
 
washed in a summer’s sun. But now
the window shut tight against the winter wind, 
 
also holds him hostage to all of the memories, 
and, how he regrets, so long ago, seeing the lines
 
etched in her face without ever quite 
reading what all the words really had to say.

By David Anson Lee


The path bends where the creek widens,
muddy at the edges, patient.
Leaves stitch themselves
into the current.

A heron lifts: slow, deliberate;
as if lifting were a careful choice.
I follow the water’s argument
with stone:
how neither wins.

Somewhere behind me,
footprints soften already.
Ahead, the trail continues
without instruction.

I walk long enough
to feel part of the afternoon,
my thoughts moving
at the pace of light on water.

By Jennifer Freya Helgeson
 


When I was seven,
a butterfly landed on my hand—
saffron and indigo,
a living piece of sky.
 
I didn’t catch it.
It caught me.
Ten breaths passed
before it rose again,
a whisper becoming wind.
 
That night, the storm came early,
and in its wreckage I found
a box of half-written stories —
forgotten thoughts
my brother left behind.
 
They hummed with wings.
Years turned and folded,
pages into seasons.
I learned how patterns echo,
how one small thing—
a choice, a kindness,
a delay—
can send tremors through time.
 
Now I stand before my students,
speaking of resilience,
of networks and the fragile grace
that holds the world together.
 
On the window,
a butterfly circles the glass,
listening.
Later, I write a children’s story—
a girl, a butterfly,
and a garden that grows
with every word she speaks.
 
Somewhere far away,
a child plants milkweed,
and somewhere beyond her,
a valley is saved from flood.
 
None of us will know.
But I remember.
Each motion matters.
Each breath begins again.
 
And in my garden,
saffron wings return,
light as memory,
to rest in my open hand.

By Catherine Zickgraf
 
 
Night blankets us in, nesting us deep like death.
Still the clouds breathe in and out.
 
When the morning moon sinks in the west,
dreams turn to waves and dissipate like mist. 
Venus fades to powder and blows away.
 
I resurrect as the stars dissolve.
I open eyes, open bedroom blinds, 
unveiling the iris of sky.
 
All these years of mornings,
I bring him coffee and kiss his neck
as pale gold spreads across our bed.
These have been our decades of days 
humming with hope in their early hours.