My Uncle Jos's backyard is filled with what Max calls "dusty cars". He means rusty, but they're dusty too.
It’s no crime to be tired of the sun, to be secretive, hiding your pain. We peer now into the choppy rooms, the windows wavy with age and rain. Let the phone ring forever, let the mail pile up. Let the dry nest fall apart, stuck together with last year’s mud jammed in the eaves and shaped like a heart. Kiski Flats - Joseph Millar