Intertidal Zone, Tupelo Quarterly
I live in an intertidal zone. During low tide, herons peck in channels running through the thick, oily mud. Around the docks, a one-legged gull and brazen snowy egret are unafraid of the dogs that step outside to howl at the occasional raccoon or the cats fighting for territory on the docks. Skeletons of old docks still cling to the mud, relics of WWII boat building days. During the war, 20,000 people worked round the clock. They built Liberty ships faster than the Germans could sink them. After the war ended, people stayed on the water in Sausalito. They had nowhere else to go, so they lived rafted up in the wake of the Liberty Ships. |
Burning Man Love in Everyday Life, Longreads
There’s an adage that you should never make major life decisions right after Burning Man. Once back in your “default life,” wait three months before moving in with the man you met atop a giant rubber duck art car, quitting your job in tech to become a trapeze artist, or getting a shark tattoo. This is considered enough time for the exhilaration of spontaneous love, boundless possibilities, and radical self-expression to subside. |
Pigeon Mumbling, Chicago Review
Beyond the trees with last year's plastic bags gnarled in their bare branches, and above the still factories on a gray winter evening, several flocks of pigeons flew into the sky. They curved on the slight breeze, then rose over the water towers. Other flocks moved further away into the distance until they were just glances of white, sparks of teal blue, and glints of burned orange. The birds ascended into a crescendo above the city skyline then dipped back down and orchestrated a synchronized return to the buildings they had left. On each of these tar-brushed rooftops stood solitary old men, brandishing long poles at their flocks of pigeons and directing them back into their pens for the night. 
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Maria Finn
