Her Boots
She stood there in those beat-up boots, laces knotted like some half-assed noose, shawl hanging off her shoulders the way a drunk hangs off a barstool—loose, tired, ready to slide off and die. Out ahead, the lake was frozen solid, a big, grey nothing staring back at her, the closest thing to forgiveness she’d ever
Atop Craigendarroch
I stitched and capered a sinuous ascent through the ferns and treacherous granite traps sharp as you like Knavish roots and vines snatching all the way at my toecaps and reached the summit wheezing like a holed bandoneon The green and ochre scabbed shield chaffed by ancient ice delivering to me the stage upon which