He played the brakes He called to the Bison
Fortunately for you I am but a potter / And not a detective
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Ciro Faienza presents the poetry of the 7 March issue.
At night, what she sees are feathers—grey, blue, white. Soft coo of a kit of pigeons huddled together in a dovecote. They aren't dreams; she opens her eyes (her outer eyes) and finds herself in her neighbor's coop, the pigeons sleepy but startled by her presence.
