by Janie Hofmann
His hands examined the stones with the precision of an ant, a light flicking of fingers, a slight bobbing of the head, knees bent; the coral skyline ached for his attention but he was voiding all colors. The earth exhaled an aria as the stubborn grey of the stones scraped his hands, yielding no information. He handled four of them like cabbages, rotating them palm to palm, discarding each one outside the circumference of the fire pit.
No stories. The next step a beginning, one that erupts from a backlog of all information one has been living then finds himself without, but how could the obscene orange sky know that?
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 