All Posts By: Byron McCoy

        She stared on the silver frames in surround of ornate dreams: ages of old, castles and country towns by the sea, hand-painted thought, printed in mass, so that ideal of the dream would never die, eternal, as dream was proven then in resurrection within her at seeing of the art.     […]

        They walked in sharp and brisk of the morning cold, stirred and awakened in shock of sense to be autumn alive.  Vapor clouds exhaled in their breaths as they walked in the autumn woods; yellows and golds, scarlets, and ambers honey-hued as sunlight through.  The walked in the ever opening of canopy, that day […]

               She saved the stories for beginning and end—set of spirit for day and dreams.  Unknowing what they’d say, unknowing what they’d share, her only was to feel something: a resonance of way in soul, a seeing as she did, gifting temperament and focus of sight upon a same-soul see.                Morning quiet then, she […]

        Another slow-roll of day, bouncing over opened ground, planting seed in wake; trees more naked than day before and so they’d be until restoring of the spring.  Amidst the rote and steady movement, he gave his I’d to dreaming—stories imagined, near to scene, but changed of intent and details; a romance that is […]

        They walked paved trail along the park beneath the autumn trees: honey-amber of the maples, scarlet of the oaks, beginning of leaves’ fall in strewn and blow over path and lawn of open green.         A somber went unspoken, but held and felt—as cloud—amongst a perfect blue.  Feeling, sensing, he spoke. […]

       He blew a hydraulic line, one small and slow in leak but—out of oil—broke him down all the same.  Slow drip from continuous pressure, flash of hydraulic fault, he stopped, inspected, tracing lines from implement forward to tractor’s join—and there it was, small wear and drip in through.  More often, lines straight blew.     […]

        Sunlight filtered through the sky, clouds as gossamer strands in hold of the rays in catch and drift through air.  Glow lighted on the changing trees; yellow and ambers of pecans and sycamores in stand around the pond.         It was beautiful, ethereal, supernatural in sight and sense that affected into […]

        Leaves of the hackberries, willows, and birch reminded him of aspens—snow in the high country.  Yellows of them all, though bark more gray than aspen’s white, they were striking in a color and contrast to the barren harvested autumn-ground around.           Like the aspens, leaves of the willows fell first from […]