Washed Stones, Dale Champlin
Diane Corson, Effervescence Washed Stones The cottage smells of mice, wood-smoke and pine. We dream we are glittering trout, blood red beneath our gills. Morning spills like candlelight— mist rising from the lake’s silk. We slip to the shale beach, pebbles slide smooth beneath our feet. Two girls, one amber, the other shell, […]
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