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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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January Journal:  Wednesday, January 9, 2013 

From the horizon’s edges, flowing

out beneath the cold roof of low clouds,

light spreads its cautionary tale.  With

every glance and stare, it urges, to

name is to tame.  Blushes whispering

from dead clay and dry lawn may say they’re

green.  This is their temporary fix. 

Refusing to let go, Hornbeam leaves

say: call us maybe amber, maybe

copper, we’ll wait here tomorrow.  With

patient resignation, light wears the

yellowed afternoon’s pale glow while a

squirrel flicks his tail.  As dark closes

in, his tasks are his full attention.


May Journal:  Tuesday, May 21, 2013 

Greens are darkly liquid in their rills

and drooping night-rain shades.  Their drenched and

heavy tops just manage to hold up

the soggy weight of morning clouds.  They

are a roof on verge of collapse.   Soaked

into the bloated folds, sunrise is

swallowed.  Air holds more water than it

can.  From her brief business, the dog comes

in spraying mist from her fusty fur. 

With gaps of neither gray nor blue, the

closed ring of linked arms and bowed shoulders

surrounds the house with greens.  Every pull-

draped window looks out to the protective

encirclement of contralto jades.


May Journal:  Sunday, May 26, 2013

Night strides deep through silences until

a helicopter’s purring becomes 

obsessive roar.  Its hawk arcs roam the

open sky above expressway ramps

a half mile distance.  Like a thick white tongue

licking thick cream, its beam burrows through

mounds of fog.  It seeks the dark roadside

trauma and makes porch lights snap on and

doors stand open wide.  Like ocean froth

washing the knees of boulders, fog flows

between dim trees.  It inundates parked

cars and lawns.  Above it, with the thrill

of sirens on the prowl, blackness streams

up through space to lap at clear high stars.


July Journal:  Tuesday, May 7, 2013 

The mower trudges through tall rain engorged

weeds and grass.  It skids on early morning’s

slopes like grease spilled floors.  The blades gag on

the thick wet concoction. Savory hay spews 

barn loft furrows out.  Well-worked

shoes soak green stains up into squishy

socks and blistering toes.  Merciless,

the steaming engine grinds and trudges

on.  Helplessness sprawls before its path. 

Three-foot tall pink and blue Irises

lie broken in the lawn.  The mower

gulps them down.   Bright confetti shreds cough

out and stick to damp sweatpants legs.  All

morning, morning is a stopped stop watch.


July Journal:  Thursday, October 17, 2013


Brushing faces and hands with almost

imperceptible fleece, rain strolls in-

to the yard.  The pavement is slow to

collect small puddles across its chest. 

Grass accepts a darker shade of green. 

Time shifts its lens to find a different

focus but does not blink or think to

change its plans.  It simply continues

its stroll letting an hour roll off

its back without a trace.  As softly

as it came rain sneaks away.  The fleece

gray clouds take no note it came.  They watch

the western sky for clearings and their

vigilance receives its just reward.

                                     -Don Mager