All Posts By: Byron McCoy

               They hunted mushrooms in the early spring among down of leaves and fallen trees.  Later, they returned picking wildflowers from prairie that touched woods’ edge.  In summer, after rains, they walked the creeks in search of arrowheads and relics from cultures before; and in fall they walked the woods, taking in the colored scene […]

        In the commotion of crowd, his mind was elsewhere, sitting off from the greater group as he smoked slowly on cigar.         Often quiet herself, she watched hm from the edges of her eyes, and when the crowd and focus moved away, she approached him in his thoughts.     […]

               “And in the darkness of this second and far more desolating interruption, he seems to have had another dream in which a voice said to him, ‘You have mistaken the meaning of vision.  Return to your town.’  And Francis trailed back in his sickness to Assisi, a very dismal and disappointed and perhaps even […]

               “Have you ever read Vonnegut?” he asked, curious if they had.                 “Why do you ask?” his friend answered answered with question of their own.                “I read a passage that made me think about something you said, about when people look for and expect to find their everything in another, ONE, and how […]

               Night settled.  Annie was alone, alone in room to self and thoughts where lamplight burned in amber aura from beneath shade that colored with its tone space and features of the silent room.                 Annie poured a second night-glass into long-stemmed glass she held from neck.  White, cool and crisp and fresh, soft-shocking sense […]

               Her face was one, God-made, for the stirring of hearts and dream; to inspire art, novels, and romance’s essence written and told, and forever held, in eyes and features of her face.                She possessed face of gift and inspirations, eyes of endless depths that when you looked into and thought you found their […]

               Sky changed before them; summer harvest scene, cimarron sky—dried and burnt—over tan stubble of fresh-run wheat.                What in beginning of day held with potential for bounty ended empty.  The harvest was reaped, its yield known; and, in the after, field and world held quiet as land and life adjusted to the change.                […]