By Barbara Kristaponis
My first real job when I moved to Manhattan was in a mental hospital. I did television. I was in charge of running the video studio, an insulated box once used for detecting electrical actions in the brain. This box looked like a refrigerator where you would find big hunks of meat, except it was lined in maple veneer and had a faded rose carpet. It was in the third sub-basement of an ivy-covered building on the river.
By Kristin Kolb
We are en route to Denver, Colorado. The sun is setting over the desolate Nevada mountains. Simple red dirt and sage brush. The landscape is wiry, stark. The peaks are far away. I want to run to them.
The sky is huge. Casinos and motels and RV camp sites appear as soon as you leave the High Sierras of California. We descend.
By Wayne Johnston
I first met the Pacific Ocean at Cannon Beach when I was a kid. Tourists hadn’t taken over the town yet and it felt like we had the beach to ourselves. The vastness, and how puny I felt at the edge of the ocean was like looking into space at the moon and stars. The sense of amazement, the size and power of all that water, the sound of it breaking on the
By Leslie Hill
I lie awake in the darkness and laugh out loud. The sound wakens Stewart from a shallow sleep.
“I’m happy,” I say and he murmurs something and sleeps again.
I don’t tell him I am laughing with delight because he’s here, in my bed,
By Mark Rozema
Viewed from a great height, the Eureka Creek watershed looks like a human ear. You can see the ear from a jet plane, or in a satellite photograph, or on a topographical map. You can’t see the ear when you are in it. In fact, in the North Cascades, you can seldom see the true and complete shape of a watershed while you are in it—especially if you are below