Breakfast by Ljubomir Simovic Didn’t I say last night it will snow? What else would there be but snow? I no longer wait for the rustle of wings, or some dove to make my heart leap and shine its light on me. Snow has hatched in every den and lair putting […]
MoreI set out on my cross country skis with a snippet of a Wordsworth poem. (The poem is actually set in spring—see full version below—but the opening lines seemed to belong to the wide and empty expanse of a golf course off-season.) I got my close-in shot: But when I backed off for the long shot, […]
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