Vera’s death was just last December, and I am missing her on this May evening, as our forty-third anniversary approaches. I need time and space
Old Saint Paul, up and down your ripped up sidestreets, kids roam, hands deep in pockets, snapping ice with each step. Their mothers poke out
For those of us who think about, study, discuss, photograph, worship, and otherwise adore the weather, Saint Paul is a miniature atmospheric
I drive across the High Bridge with Saint Paul sprawling before me, built on hills like Rome itself.