Britton Shurley

First Girl When I hear their metal boots clacking through the garden, trampling down the daffodils, I will dance by this patch of violets; I will call down hours of rain. Their rusty knees should halt them. Second Girl I will set the herbs ablaze— the lemon thyme, the chocolate mint, the blooming pineapple sage. […]

In the story concerning the ice storm the trees are dripping crystal, & the wind snaps their branches like glass. There are ink-black birds pecking pinholes in the puddles, & an early, purple crocus huddles frozen in its blossom. The evening sun sets its pink on the yard while a swollen, brown-mouthed river waits patiently […]