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Saturday, October 06, 2012


Rain on the autumn leaves . . . Inside, my husband hands me a feather from a lilac-breasted roller, plucked from the ground in Mozambique. Given the bird, it might be almost any color, but this one is black, cobalt blue, and sky.

For new poems, see the prior post. For 2012 books (novel and two poetry volumes), see the A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage and The Foliate Head pages. A Thaliad page will be up soon.


  1. I can see it now, the feather I mean.

  2. I had the most brilliant, wondrous day today--the feather was just the start! Shall have to write about it tomorrow or the next...


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.