Author: Mary Elder Jacobsen

  Late morning, one settles down on a leaf afloat, plying his chain-mail oars, his little raft a fragile boat. My father would say darner where I saw “dragonfly.” Who knows any longer what a darner is? Time flies. Late afternoon, Lake’s hem unraveling, Sun squints toward dusk—leaning in to finish her day’s stitches. Evening…