by Steph Spector
It doesn’t matter whether you’re on a hundred yards of turf stamped with the seal of our alma mater, or standing on a bluff overlooking a creek, cinnamon whiskey on the brain. It’s the curl-bend-whip of your wrist that makes them fly so fast and so willingly. It’s something like a turntable needle when it kisses a record, crackles, and sings. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 