By Steve Rubinstein  A woman on her way  to a barn with two buckets-   one empty for warm foaming   milk- one yesterday’s dinner   for pigs.  Behind her a girl only   dreaming a cow all her own  beneath which to kneel  warm dung. moist hay  touching softly the udder   to hum.  Before them a cow  one horn turned down,   black fur as a moon-poor night,   yellow stripe down her length   behind her a calf   looking forward.  Up here is a farm owned by a woman  no longer sleeping in Winter  worried when darkness   runs snowed ridges   her cow chewing cud   in the cold.

By Raina Panarese Back in the late ’90s, there was a student named Stinky Pete. When Pete moved here from Vermont, he was ordinary, but his mind and personal hygiene were forever altered after he unintentionally poisoned himself with amanita muscariamushrooms. He caught a beaver up in Trapper Creek and brought it back to the city to keep as a pet. Pete hosted wild parties off campus to show it off, and I remember seeing Pete’s beaver scurry behind the couch where I was sitting. After Pete released the beaver unharmed, beavers became permanent residents of University Lake.  

By Josie Martin Here at home, winter’s playing.  Outside smells cold as fall grows old.  The mountain is the backdrop—  snow is our only prop. 

By Anonymous The Ups and Downs compare nothing….  to the fear felt in my body when you tell me I’m overreacting,  depth of my pain when I’m forced to pick a side,  The mystery of being once the peaceful majority to the silenced minority,  Knowing your home and watching it fade,  Understanding that my life is a privilege and not one I control,  The Ups and Downs compare nothing to being Native,   Where everyone is willing to stare but few willing to care.  

By Dave Onofrychuk  “Hey Dad,” says my son, now seven. “There’s a new Lego Mario set, and guess what?”  “Chicken butt,” I say.  “It’s not like the kids’ set. It’s for adults. And guess what?”  “Chicken butt.”   “It’s a big box—you know, like the question mark boxes in the game? And guess what?”  “Chicken butt.”  “You open up the top, and there are three platforms that come out of it—you know, like out of the top of it? And guess what?”  “Chicken butt.”  “There’s a castle level, and an ice level, and the level with a bunch of bombs and bomb stuff. And guess what? Dad. Hey Dad. Dad. Dad.…

By Zoe May Making sugar cookies is a delicate art. They have to be soft and buttery and sweet. You start with flour and powder and sugar; the most important part! Then roll them and mold them and lay them on a cookie sheet. Then we wait for them to bake, at least it is faster than a tart. When the timer dings we can finally feast. After all, food is the way to the heart, so enjoy this special treat.

By Jordan Hales Powerful and soft, Disastrous but beautiful. The Snow, is a force. 

By Jordan Hales I’m cozy inside,  When the outside is frigid, Watching fallen Snow. 

By Annika Enkvist A deep crimson stream oozes down the side of the flattened dead tree, seeping into the little nooks and devouring the remaining space suffocated by air. Lightly, a pale liquid splashes against the once haunting crimson. Aquamarine. A warm grey washes over the thin slice of a once mighty tree, taking the shape of a puddle. Mixing the colors together, the wooden stick with strands of hair catches a harsh lime green, dripping the once bright color on the soft fuzzy grey creating this muted, faint, offering. Thus the cycle continues, oozing, dripping, splashing, shaping, until the piece is created.

By Emma Knapp They say the rain washes away sin the running stream carries it away into living water They say fire is the furnace for gold the rising smoke heeds purity from evil  Why then is the ocean at my door  and no fire in my soul