Author: Rick Ferris

The northerly winds blow cold today; scudding cloud-shapes distend and break with every gust, dip of oar, exposing voids, deep, beckoning. The northern shore’s a shadow line—a budding insubstantiality, or cosmic dust settled long before my feeble reckoning. . . . I paddle on, due north, into the wind, body inclined toward my canoe’s prow, …

I In the beginning, church was fun, because I thought the priest was God, a person I Could see, perceive: a man with hairy jaws, A voice, and glasses on his nose; but, by And, by a thought intruded, unexpected, That measured Priest and found his mien unlike What Heaven’s host should be; now doubt-infected, …