Forgot your password?

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

Sign in

  • I am greedy for gifts.
    Every day.
    I crave them --
    the tiny jolts.

    In cities new to me, they flutter about like birds.
  • Of course they do.

    How easy to fall in love with the other stories
    the ones you've never imagined until they rough you up --

    Of course they do.

    Insight flashes when the senses are aflame. When primed.
  • But here at home--take today--

    Out here in the orchard where I work the berry patch, I slip
    on stories
    on old stories as my hands stained raspberry go about their own dance--

    stories of berry-picking with my father along the railroad tracks or stories he told of fishing as a boy or my mother tells of her father cutting her hair or of her grandmother playing the drums or of her aunt's parrot or great grandparents or what I know happened on this land down at the front barn perched on an old quarry

    on and on and on the mind flaps
  • until in the middle of the night
    the familiar becomes strange
    sharp
    surprised at itself
    and gifts wing in


    or like now, when an astonishment
    alights
    unsuspecting
    unexpected
    just there.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

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.