Affairs at the Jupiter hotel

Cardinal, goldfinch, titmouse, turkey buzzard— dear companions of my afternoons— above this field, high clouds dream of blizzards to snow me in till spring ends my solitude. Sober’s my binge now, nature my saloon. Wren, mourning dove, house finch, turkey buzzard— for your entertainment, I . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Goat gone feral comes in where the fence is open comes in and makes hay and nips the tree seedlings and climbs the granite and bleats, through its line- through-the-bubble-of-a-spirit-level eyes it tracks our progress and bleats again. Its Boer heritage is scripted in . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

8220;For an eiii-dee,” they were saying. “We need to see Lisette Mulvey.” This was unexpected. In second-period class, at 9:40 A.M., on some damn Monday in some damn winter month she’d lost track of, when even the year—a “new . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

I remember he was bent down Like a whirlpool I was yelling at him He looked scared and backed away Another time, I squinted my eyes to see And he said I looked ugly The funny part was when My sister asked me where he went to And I just . . .Read the whole article at The [...]

The little goats like my mouth and fingers, and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field, pushes her mouth forward to my mouth, so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her . . .Read the whole article at The [...]