I was carrying boxes into a seedy Richmond hotel when everyone came to a full stop in front of the lobby TV.
“Jesus Christ!” Jeff yelled, hands on his bald head. “What the HELL is going on?”
Onscreen, a long line of high school kids – also with hands on their heads – fled across a parking lot.
The historians began to arrive – and they were needy – so I had to run.
But I spent the day eavesdropping shamelessly, trying to make sense of what I had seen.
these fifty nine flowers
after the frost