By Ken Stern 

Musings -- on the editor's mind

 


The Skagit River Poetry Festival was nigh, and so the volunteers came, fluttering in, silently, unsung, no trumpets, just a steady trudging from one venue to another. They planted signs of poetry, literally, and an occasional feather left in a room, randomly.

It was a different spring migration, this one biennially, with a flock of odd ducks, not in any birder’s book, attracting a different breed of tourists.

Poems started popping up, opening like mid-spring flowers, around town last Wednesday, as volunteers started digging into their tasks. They busily flitted from one building and chore...



For access to this article please sign in or subscribe.

 

Reader Comments(0)

 
 

Powered by ROAR Online Publication Software from Lions Light Corporation
© Copyright 2024