Every stump is sacred. Every stump a saint. Every silted river a church to which the

By Gary Lawless Coming to Stone My grandfather, Lester Dow, came from Prospect,

Editors’ Note: Occasionally, the word art of poetry conveys something much

9,000 feet, 7 AM, 20 degrees: First snow paints the bald pate above tree line on

Do the loons tell their children stories of this lake? Do the stones remember the

We were listening to the sound The ice makes – “too much!” says Nanao We were

—for Joan and Peter Wood  Mid-March in the Clove, between the Backslabs and Lost

Silent for months, mostly he returns, traversing the shedding orchard, tree to apple

By Robert Michael Pyle Before, there were bears. Then there was Weyerhaueser, and

Featured image: Against the majestic backdrop of the Beartooth Range, January’s