Information about the poet.
The crows pick at the waste on the asphalt.
The men push jingling shopping carts. Or stand and mimic life
in a prison yard. The wild white swan is dead. Where I caught
trout as a child, no trout swim now. The drives
and crescents gouge ravines, make creeks disappear. Where wild
baby fish run, they run the gauntlet of penned fish. They are eaten alive…
— from “Nest of the Swan’s Bones”
Russell Thornton’s latest collection of poems, Birds, Metals, Stones and Rain, explores powerful, primary human…[more]