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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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The circumference of water measured twice, duplicated once,

the underside of the eyelids; nothing is more morning


than the mist rising on the pond behind the sound of a cowbell

with thirty two hooves sinking in mud, eight heads low


eye me through the fog as they drink in the purple water of sun up.

The gravel road I stand on is set on water. The still water in                                


the ditch curls around the stick I hold the hollow stem of the sedge keens

in the wind. The sharp claws of the chickadees pock the snow here,


there. Such aerodynamics marking until the wind blows the snow off

this iced surface behind the maple, the grand light, twittering the weak


light of winter. Four o’clock. A dirty glory, a grey rescued from poison

in this leaded hotel. A lesson on the road of Mozart, a brave new chandelier,


piano chord. Water is ice, links air, creates purple on the tongue.  A zoo of emotion.

A tense backward lullaby. The white layered cake of the frosted winter pond


The pretty explanations of passion, across the field, deep in the pasture.

Across the light-green heart of this blade of grass, frozen at the foot


and now exposed by the wind. This simple volcano of the tongue.

This frozen folk tale. This library of water. This climate controlled


repository. Here is the world of thin spiders. This woven basket of water.

This place of half in and half out insects. This place set with wings and orbs.


This place fit for hums and chatter of bones. The air blown about this water

is different. It is the air of the arrowroot biscuit. The self-satisfied mallard.


The purple goose. Here is where the grass scribes its diary. This is where the near

year begins every time the sun climbs up  the branches of the pines to stare down


into this broken magnifying glass. Off the edge of the field, I am pond.

I am air. I am a trumpet of water. I am the string of the guitar plucked .


Spying on myself in sleep, the world spun backward, I am the wing on fire.



                                                                                         —JoNelle R. Toriseva