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