Maybe we weren’t so quiet after all

Stories of early morning bass busting water in an inlet here or there just out of reach

I came up with a small slip of folded yellow paper that had “Nyquist” printed on it

A narrative of memory threaded with story

My feeling about summer is ambivalent

That I am no longer a reporter means that I am free to imagine stories about what and who I see

A confessional dialogue

Igor’s a guy who’s looking ahead; he doesn’t dwell on the bad stuff

The purse, shoved between a seat in the third row and an armrest, had apparently been hiding there all along, virtually invisible

Birds’ seemingly infinite adaptations are, for me, where the main interest is found.