by Glenn Stowell | Jun 20, 2014
It began with the mail. That’s not true. It started generations ago when we came on railcars pulled north by the steady tug of buried ore. But then it was the arrival of the mail—two envelopes, bulging with declarative sentences and government seals—that pushed us...
by Glenn Stowell | Mar 1, 2014
the language of grief is not exclusively human. A wolf carries off our goose by his gaunt neck in the night. His partner wanders the perimeter of our fields for six days until her honking grows hoarse. But it is the human: so much of what we are is what arrests us....
