Overcast. A train whistle coming from the wrong direction. The resident naturalist stops at the corner of the wall, gets out her hand lens.


  1. Postcard to Grey

    How solemn the breastplates of soot
    on the sides of old buildings.

    How hard the rind; how the mouth
    whittles away to get to its sweet.

    How like a rumpled quilt, these overcast skies
    above clumps of streaked magnolias.

    How the train moves forward on the track,
    how its whistle departs in the other direction.

    How blind to the rain, these small
    prisms of light that fracture at our feet.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    03 30 2011

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