George Murray

Regardless, the trees will still stretch out from their wrinkled sleep, will hang a canopy of limp hands. Look down that quiet lane where the branches make an arch, and say what you see: far enough down, any road becomes a street, or ends in the wild. The fireflies are being mistaken for stars again […]

Once I cooked in a greasy roadside spoon just like the one off this highway – and one day during a lunch rush I swiped with my knife at a passing fly and cut it’s head clean off, right through where a neck should be. So stunned I was at realizing a long running dream […]