Aye, the nib doth part the flesh of the page, slow as a thief in a sepulchre’s shade— not with haste, nay, nor with the clatter of some dullard’s hammer, but with the whisper of a blade parting silk.Here,...

The winter's shins of snow, fall upon the untouched fields, walking a white, unblinking road,before softness begins to thaw, a million fractured prisms, temporary diamonds...The winter's shins of snow.

"Beau Weevil, is the name." I had left my home in Georgia to be a field correspondent at the annual Naked Pickleball Tournament in Boca Raton, and I was not prepared. The hotel room smelled like coconut sunscreen and...