Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Today in the forest a yellow leaf fell on top of my head like a hand. Some pleasant minutes later another fell on my shoulder, brushing my cheek. Watching the wings of color flap to the ground it dawned on me as it tends to every autumn: time is a thing, a malleable form--like the others. The number one, for example, changes during conception and after birth--the way the main idea of an essay is animate within it then peels out during conversation. Poetry, my friend Marc says, will die if no one is taught how to read it. It will transform anyway.

    A long-standing form takes on the steadiness of a mountain, seems beyond the natural laws. If no one eats a beefeater tomato, the breed will become an heirloom, its seeds pocketed by a handful of conscientious farmers who enjoy its particular flavor, the even gradations in color, the width of that breed's shoulders, its acid.

    Our breed, homo sapiens, seems to have inherent in our design love, if love is the energy of favoritism. We develop preferences and propagate certain feelings, wriggle our forms toward another that seems friendly, teach the young what to encourage. Some days it does seem that simple. One is so full of the courage it takes to create anything impermanent.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.