Edition1

by LYNDAL TURNER I remember how it was to stand, a child on the cracked concrete stoop of the old shed, arms up like blinkers, glad hands buried in the sky’s blue. Tractors would come and go; trucks with bellies…

by LYNDAL TURNER The slow boil of summer dusk, a blood red sky darkens and drains to black behind the precise silhouette of trees and the outline of hay; rolled, wrapped and stacked along the fenceline. In the distance, low…

by LYNDAL TURNER In the orchard, the air was cooler and a kind of verdancy teased at the ends of our hair. Industry buzzed and wheeled between the branches and sweet fruit hung in globes as bright as any strands…