Author: Warren Woods
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Witless Witness
Out in Colorado, I lived on a ranch that I won in a poker game (that’s a story for another time). A broad stretch of land sloped along a mountain pass up high where the air is thin. Where the air has a chill, something nostalgic. There it sat. Two dogs came with it—to tend to…
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The Sound of Bells
On the street rests crumbled relics, hardened with time, crushed and oxidized. They cannot be seen from the sagging porch facing the street but their existence is made known by the stressing sound of each individual granule as it scrapes beneath the drifting wheels of the night cruisers. Looking for a quiet place to park,…