Remembering John Bunce

From the February 1994 Print Edition

Below these bluffs, branch waterlike a wind in leavesruffles the hollow. The rush and spillsings through bare timber.Stretched in the sun on this rough rock,I feel the stir among the hickory buds,the red tips on the maple, and wonderwho could name these sounds”the flowingover,the surging . . . . Continue Reading »