That day in the store, after he didn’t look at me, he moved quickly back out onto the bustling sidewalk, the afternoon sunlight making long, crowded shadows.

Being a writer can feel a lot like writing and giving up on writing at the same time.

Political speeches might strive to nourish us, but lately nobody wants a salad; this president got where he is by slinging red meat.

Now, as the sun set, the season remembered its name.

It was wintertime, but the day was a little telegram from spring.