Originally posted on O at the Edges:
  ? Firewood For two years the oak loomed, leafless. We had aged together, but somehow I survived the drought and ice storms, the regret and wilt, the explosions within, and it did not. I do not know the rituals of trees, how they mourn a passing, or…

Got Kryptonite?

If I write an Aboriginal spy novel, they will poison each other with milk.