By Robert Penick
Sic Terminus This is beauty: Fifty-eight degrees in March the breeze tousling the water on a languid Ohio River making the current appear to reverse. It is an illusion, tape flowing backward, a clock resetting to an earlier hour, the rings disappearing from the trunk of the tree. Easy on the eyes and heart, the tide returns, lying, making the fiction that stories rewind and tell themselves anew, that there is a destination other than the infinite sea.
Mason Street 