We’d drive the twisted road down from France across the border and into the crowded dusty parking lot in Spain then return home with cases of wine and if they had it, the Bols oude genever.
prose
Funny how the circle is a wheel
I started talking to someone again, and made plans to FaceTime her at 4. We hadn’t talked since last summer so she asked, how’s it going with your family, with the pandemic? I said it feels like the wheels have… Read More ›
Something I learned today
At the back of the property the blackberry vines were advancing but the fruit was anemic and as I sampled it there was deer scat in the grass and fruit flies that made me feel uneasy. I went back once… Read More ›
Mimicry
I had to go back to where I was from. The beach, where the forest meets the ocean and the river lets in. In that golden autumn we were all forgotten. I hung my shirt on the back of my… Read More ›
Fair play to you
I conditioned the air because it was clammy inside and we couldn’t open the windows. The ducks were still at the lake and in the morning everything looked ghostly with that mixture of fog and smoke. I slapped my chest… Read More ›
Weird scenes inside the gold mines
The Jupiter’s Beard is the last to bloom, pale pink with bees picking pollen from its bush. The garden out front is on its last legs, the lavender deep purple. On the hillsides back in Germany they’d be out with… Read More ›
Dream sequence, prayer
In that dream I was walking out of an airport trying to figure out where I’d parked. There were vague signs showing names of gates and parking lots but soon it all got confused and I realized I didn’t know… Read More ›
You can never quarantine the past
Labor Day came and went, hot easterly winds. The tell-tale crunch of leaves. In mid September we drove to that strange town in the French mountains, Saint-Pierre des Champs. We rented a Eurovan and I was the only one who… Read More ›
Downgraded to a tropical depression
The drive to the coast takes five hours from Seattle with three cities in between: Tacoma, Olympia, and Aberdeen. From Aberdeen it’s another two hours to the ocean, featureless and hard to keep awake. I’ve gotten better about what music… Read More ›
The last run up the A7
I can remember exactly how it felt, and then it’s gone. The look of the sky when it started to change, how clear the seam between summer and fall that year we spent in Germany. How the winery workers appeared… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 