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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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Journal Entries 


Wednesday, March 20, 2013


Stoic and resolute, afternoon

will not release the chill morning wind

it clutched in its arms early in the

day. Held here the wind can’t go on with

plans to travel. The entente threatens

after midnight to settle in hard. 

From rows of sprightly lettuce shoots, wee

voices call out for plastic caps to

huddle under. Meanwhile in bold plots

of reds, whites and purples, sentinel

tulips stand brave, defiant of pend-

ing terror. Afternoon inches down

one degree each hour. The flocks of

peach blossoms, in dread, hold their wee breaths.



Saturday, March 30, 2013


All morning, night’s cold erects a blind

wall across the yard. Noon’s mercury

tips up two more degrees. The sun’s broad

cloudless swathes wash down through trees that have

postponed their greening up. The swathes are

powerless against the stubborn air. 

Cold commands sun’s touch, "Keep your distance."

All at once, a silent summons breaks

the stalemate. Flitting in from every

side, thronging chickadees and robins

fly down. They jerk and bob around the

stubble grass. Exuberance of lunch

is their protest march. Glad to be of

some small use, sun keeps its still cold watch.



Sunday, April 28, 2013 


With no desire for haste, night grubs at

rotting logs along the vines that snare

the creek with its clay-brown midnight rush

of cloudburst run-off. Night snuffs around

and, time to time, its waif possum-call

clucks faintly across the wet woods floor. 

The elsewhere of night’s loneliness, time

to time, barks faintly back. High in the

gray light, bats jolt and jerk. Trees are half

awake with young dark leaves. Nursing in

burrows and matted deer fawn thickets,

night is half asleep. The only haste

present here, gargling and sloshing

to itself, is the creek’s frantic churn. 



Thursday, June 13, 2013


Like a grandma’s sloppy scrub of a

boy’s face and peck on his cheek, showers

gush fast and rough.  They quickly dry.  While

clouds towel clean the sky, the rainbow holds

court in the east.  Decked out in circus

attire of violet onion skin

ribbons, pumpkin orange sashes, and silk

saris molten with spun rubies and

burnished gold, sunset pounces the west.

In florid tights and head plumes, its grace

balances high wire headstands.  Its leaps

float from wide trapezes.  As the show’s

drum rolls, applause and spotlight shut down,

colored scraps strew the horizon floor.



Saturday, November 30, 2013


Grid-bound, weary and home-hungry, dusk

is locked in an indolence of time. 

Its aftermath of light glides between

stark trees.  It inches out over the 

shaggy blanket of bare lots with

weeds broke off, and grass beat down to straw. 

Caution steps out on skittish doe hooves

like apparitions in the gloaming,

one—now two—now imperceptibly

—at least—ten—grazing with alert ears,

cocked and twitching at the line of cars. 

Slowing to a near full stop, fading

light strains to look, while, to avoid lurch

and crash, it strains against breathless dread.

                                                  -Don Mager