A Ring of Feathers
October 4, 2021Essay by Beth Richards
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
Although the price is right, leafing through piles of trash looking for a gem isn’t exactly efficient.
I can define my story by my art. I can define my art by my story.
I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
People bring unknowable baggage to their readings—and to the author herself.
Now I’m half the stoner I used to be, liquor-free, and he’s gone.
Even on the loveliest days, there’s a feeling like the poignancy of watching your toddler waddle across a summer lawn.