Stories

Today the ice along the fence-line let go, all at once, in a sound like a book being closed in another room.

My grandfather, who built boats, used to say that silence was a room you furnished, not a room you entered.

A photographic essay on abandoned shipyards along the Baltic, where the fog arrives each morning like a curator.

An accounting of the winters I have known — the kind that did not pass cleanly, and the kind that did.