Apr 9, 2021
5 min read
Salt
Salt comes in on the morning air like the wounded walking home, a worked ripeness, a pain hanging.
By Tom Sheehan
1. The river’s a slow snake idling through eelgrass (now and then its body pouches). Red-winged blackbirds watch the uncoiling, hide their young the way lint finds pocket depths. They are noiseless, stock-still (their hearts must beat like pocket…
