Tag Archives: Jim Brosnan

You’re probably right when you indicate it’s time to utilize classical music for wake-up calls. What other conversations have you had recently? Some months ago on a Sunday morning, I gazed from a steep hillside where the view stretched to … Continue reading →

A late morning stroll past numerous street vendors is still vivid in my memory: the cinnamon scent of fried dough, the glassblower displaying his wares, the quartet playing in the town square— part of the festival where imagination always ends … Continue reading →

Black storm clouds gather momentum over random meadows in small prairie towns on a late summer day as a wispy breeze turns the undersides of silver maple, alters the flight of swallowtails. In the distance thunder rumbles, a distant drummer, … Continue reading →

When the black cat purrs in her lap and the white wicker rocker creaks on the cement porch, she looks indifferently at the unopened envelope delivered this morning bearing a Wyoming cancellation postmarked between the western prairies of Nebraska and … Continue reading →

Ominous black clouds gather, splash a licorice tint against the afternoon sky, hours after a landscape artist daubed earthtones from her wooden palette. Locals instinctively know the fast moving storm could spawn funnel clouds, its moisture flooding parched fields while … Continue reading →

When the last magenta strands fade into dull charcoal, patches of goldenrod etch the fenced fields in ochre. The magpie awaits chilly nights, mourns the departure of crickets and fireflies. The notes of this quiet song rustle corn stalks, permeate … Continue reading →

At the hour before dusk a strawberry skyscape envelops the house resting under a stand of cottonwoods, the two silos squirreling this year’s harvest, a field of stoic sunflowers lifting moon-shaped faces. the freshly plowed fields— their deep furrows mirroring … Continue reading →

What I believe I understand about a Missouri sunrise is that the jagged horizon seems to burst into warm colors in first light, the palette rising behind rolling open landscape brushstroked with traces of light pink and slate clouds. I … Continue reading →

I maneuver windy roads bound for the Rockies, heavy cloud banks lifting slowly with morning mist, what’s left of darkness mingles with first light, appears in a raspberry sunrise, quietness intertwined in the tangled silence of towering aspen. Dr. Jim … Continue reading →

Streaks of light seep across dark interstate lanes bordering endless miles of cornfields on an evening that seems to last forever under a starless sky as I travel south two hundred miles to Wichita where the wind blows from the … Continue reading →

I linger in the morning chill after dreamless sleep, survey untilled fields near the Comfort Suites, before breakfast, watch morning traffic, before recalling a dream decades ago when you were more than a memory, when we walked hand-in-hand on a … Continue reading →

Arching rainbows leaves few traces minutes after the storm ends as I drive past acres of corn rows, observe a dozen orange-winged blackbirds on a post and rail fence—images found in storybooks about the Midwest. Before eleven, I listen to … Continue reading →

On early morning walks, I meander through rolling fields of tall grass, clumps still whispering after last night’s storm, the meadow still damp in first light when I suddenly can’t remember the lyrics of that unfinished song, when I just … Continue reading →

I struggle to remember last week’s dreams— withered fields of dried up wildflowers where no one hears our footsteps crossing Iowa meadows under indigo skies, a red-winged blackbird, the only witness to our intrusion. Jim Brosnan’s publishing credits include Nameless … Continue reading →

Searching for items in the Saturday online edition, I come across the social pages with portraits of recent brides. I immediately recognize your gaze, the way you often held your chin on your left hand staring back at me, those … Continue reading →

Endless rows of corn and wheat wave in unison as June gusts gently bend endless acres of young grain, as expansive as an ocean’s stretch to the horizon. A straight ribbon of asphalt crisscrosses the Kansas plains. At seventy we … Continue reading →

Fifty-five miles from Rapid City, I listen intently to November skies, sense a hint of precipitation when a flock of sparrows prepare for flight over a nearby field— rich with milkweed. My memory returns to that evening when the moon … Continue reading →

hear the raindrops cascading on the café’s sloping metal roof, watch shifting constellations meander in shrinking light, study cloud formations drifting east without intent, stare at snow-drizzled mountain peaks on a moonless night, listen to Tchaikovsky symphonies holding you. I … Continue reading →

We witness the downstream destruction of the Missouri as it overflowed its banks when we follow the Hermann Wine Trail, eighty miles west of St. Louis where submerged vineyards harbor mature hardwoods which reflect their lonely images on a flooded … Continue reading →

On the interstate west of Cheyenne, just fifty miles from Laramie, my Jeep cruises past herders driving sheep and Angus cattle, past ranchers in ten-gallon hats rounding up cows and calves on short grass prairies, past bison grazing in darkening … Continue reading →

I think about you when I stop in the parking lot at the Winnemucca Casino where I want to engage the one-armed bandits, but instead watch a hitchhiker balancing a ragged backpack as he traces the shoulder along State Route … Continue reading →

I gaze through clouded windows on the California Zephyr, twenty minutes after departing St. Louis, the arc of a trestle emerging in the soft charcoal of dusk, the moon rising before the sky swallows these open spaces. I remember that … Continue reading →