A Poem by Robert Beveridge 

Scent of pine. Squirrel

darts across the pathway

before you. Arrows in neon

spray mark the trail.

You turn the wrong way, nudge

branches and undergrowth

from your new path. Around you

bare trees in all directions. Hills,

slopes, no clearing in sight.

You turn, survey the earth, look

for a place where there are more

green shoots per square foot.

You cannot be sure you

find one, but you pick

that direction anyway,

begin to walk.

Chilling Memories

Chilling Memories

Book Review: Atlas Shrugged

Book Review: Atlas Shrugged