Playing Banjo – Ed Skoog
Then put the banjo back in its case.
Close door against the city.
Make a rural sound. Be my key.
Close down the bar. Sing a round.
Thanksgiving on the Line – James Galvin
The Weatherman said, “Sunny statewide.”
The Weatherman lied.
The Medicine Bow grated snow down
Without even a storm to work with.
In the front yard there are three big white pines, older than any-
thing in the neighborhood except the stones. Magnificent trees that
toss their heads in the wind like the spirited black horses of a troika.