Falling | Carl Phillips There’s a meadow I can’t stop coming back to, any more than I can stop calling it a sacred grove—isn’t that what it was, once? A lot of resonance, trees asway with declarations whose traced-on-the-air patterns the grasses also traced, more subtly, below. As for strangers: yes, and often, and—with few exceptions— each desperate either to win back some kingdom he’d lost, or to be, if…
