Volume 1 Number 4
Winter 2007



James Armstrong

Top of the bluff, the wind wrenches the cedars,
grey clouds stream from the north in ragged squads,
the snow is rotten in crevices of dolomite.
Once the floor of a quiescent ocean, 
the hard crust of the inhuman
scratches my bootsoles. Six hundred feet below,
the commuter hum of traffic stops and goes
on Highway 61—the restless proponents
of civilization. they want to go to work,
colleagues and neighbors, who wait with idling engines
for the green light, whose cheery phosphorescence
comes up the valley, from the power plant
which jabs its finger of soot
at the seemingly endless sky.