||by Marco North|
Emily was in the garden. The thick grass tickled her elbows and the backs of her legs. She slept under the willow tree by the pond. Its limbs moved in the breeze as tears slid to her lips.
A man brushed them away, whispering little nonsense words and part of a lullaby.
|Wild Birds of the Food Court
||by Denice Aldrich Jobe|
I am enchanted again this morning by the riotous plash of the stony fountain. Here, near its scalloped edge, I have dragged my café table squealing. Excepting me, the central square is empty. Even the wide pedestrian boulevards, all four of which meet at the square, are vacant.