The Fourth River

Tributaries

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Tributaries: “Peony”

By on June 7, 2017

By Sally Nacker   for B.W.   You bring home a peony bush to plant with your dog’s ashes. Too late for medicine, or hope, but not for beauty. Each June, an effusion of vivid blossoms will open, blessing air.

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Tributaries: “Arrows Go in Circles”

By on May 31, 2017

By Ryan Loveeachother   You drag the blue recycling crate to the curb. When you’re at work, the big truck comes collecting. Shrill hydraulic brakes. A robotic arm snatches, lifts and shakes. Everything shatters into a million loud pieces. Speculations

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Tributaries: “The Wisdom of Neighbors”

By on May 24, 2017

By Susan Wider     Dark-eyed junco:             Relax into the slide. A light dusting of snow covers the gently-sloping green roof of the bird feeder. You fly there—regular schedule, normal speed. You take it at a slide when you try

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Tributaries: “Crossing Borders”

By on May 17, 2017

By Aileen Bassis   Walking on roads and rubble, gravel and grass, pavement and black-top. We know our past. We don’t know what waits. Grass and pavement, black-top hillsides and grasslands, desert and dirt, we don’t know what waits —

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Tributaries: “Glass with Soma and Salt”

By on May 10, 2017

By Amy Small-McKinney     This time there is a window, there is also a sea. Not what you expect, not my usual ocean of evergreen. Here I lean against regret. Behind me, everything I want. Uncertain blue or insistent

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Tributaries: “Someone Else’s City”

By on May 1, 2017

By Robin Rozanski   This city is compact. However you define city and downtown and wherever you draw the lines, the whole thing is morphing. The roads are ripped up for construction, and the new buildings behind the barricades are

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Tributaries: “Pawpaws”

By on April 26, 2017

By Kelly Garriott Waite   The thing is, I’m not even sure I like pawpaws, deceitful things: I look at the oversized fruits dangling from the branches ten feet up and think pear. Yet a pawpaw cut open and tasted

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Tributaries: “Landmarks”

By on April 19, 2017

By Deborah Fass   Not the lawn taken by oxalis, not the yellow flowers we recklessly call buttercup, not the Caution: Repaving sign tacked to a sawhorse, not the sawhorse, not the pavement, not the 1950 single-family ranch, not the

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Tributaries: “Land and Seek”

By on April 12, 2017

 By Sarah Van Bonn     “We think we’re getting slimmer, but really we’re losing our youth.” Dee and I are lying on the sailboat: the part they call a “trampoline” but why? It’s as easy or hard to jump

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Tributaries: “What a Butterfly Means”

By on April 5, 2017

By Joanna Brichetto   At book group someone asked why write about nature, and someone answered we write to make meaning. But what if meaning is already there? Let’s say I see a butterfly in the rain, and it’s a