by Regan Stacey

I must confess, I sing to the trees. They don’t judge. I think the nearby squirrel had something to say, but between her and the dense mist dripping from the trees, all was silent between the notes of my voice. Slowly as I walked, I could hear the distant wash of water over stone, where Burnham Brook babbled and had stories to tell…

by Dee Mueller

At the entrance to a magical wood

A behemoth, once, majestically stood

Tattered and torn, she holds her ground

In a thousand bones, just lying around

She comes from a time when giants roamed free…