 Die Erde & Der Himmel (Heaven and Earth), by Séverine Gallardo (France) 2024. Click image for artist Instagram page. Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative. The prompt this time is Heaven and Earth, by Séverine Gallardo. Deadline is May 9, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include GALLARDO CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, May 9, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.
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 Reimagining Hwy 1 Optimized for Public Transit, by Taylor Seamount (USA) contemporary. Click image for artist site. Another Day The highway jamming. Horns honking, people cursing, just another day. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** night blind we could wake up one day and see fewer cars that we don’t need to breathe all day ok Mike Sluchinski ** we hold these i remember it was maybe ford dodge or chrysler well they said that an open road was air to breathe Mike Sluchinski Mike Sluchinski loves Canadian fiction, especially pieces by politicians. El Shaddai made the crooked places straight and got him published in Pulpmag, The Literary Review of Canada,The Coachella Review, Inlandia, Welter, Poemeleon, Lit Shark, Proud To Be Vol. 13, The Ekphrastic Review, MMPP (Meow Meow Pow Pow), Kelp Journal, ‘the fib review’, Eternal Haunted Summer, Syncopation Lit. Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal (SOFLOPOJO), Freefall, and more coming! ** Highways Department If all those in charge of highways Were real drivers, and more aware Not mere eco-sensitive city cyclists Then we’d see a different solution Dispelling their firmly held illusion Seeing images of those raised fists Not in triumph, but more despair But that is how local politics plays Yet no matter what experience says Poor commissioning of road repair Selecting only the suppliers on lists As they say, it avoids any confusion Benefits are modest, often Lilliputian With no incentive to slap any wrists Just a shrug to say, C’est la guerre Claiming it was only an initial phase Machinery left in the coned off bays No workers present, no activity there Few stuck in traffic would be optimists That it will ever reach any conclusion And that it is progress, mere delusion Aware that there will be no apologists It’ll be yet further long delays to bear Three blocked lanes feels like a maze Clouds of exhaust fumes is now a haze Using up fuel that few can really spare No saving the planet as the world insists Keep heat on and damn the pollution There’s no argument about attribution And traffic jams are no place for trysts Working from home may be more fair But some roadworks will attract praise Howard Osborne Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel. ** After Frost Main stage way – bottleneck. I took the least travelled turn – lush, tangs, skies – soul mates. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, has studied and taught at Universities of Sofia, Delhi and London and authored a book on mediaeval manuscript art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europa Edizioni, 2021. ** Faster I cannot come to you any faster. Although my heart beats in preparation for the journey. I see what you created. Strange beings of acceleration without names. Without hearts or souls. This is not the way to heaven as I had thought. The graveyard awaits. Dreams of power and forced ownership. Dressed as an innocent being with an untold history. Parading as a family member. It will guide you to unknown and unkind destinations. Its facade will change to confuse you. It contains the engine of mystery within. It will flash and wink its lights and confuse your senses. it is not a friend and has no name. It shows its true face once adopted. Its uniform smile mimicking a loved one. A whirl wind that will confuse you with its speed. Do not be conned or misguided by its power. It is deadly. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and filmmaker. A member of the Acting Company of Lincoln Center. And voting member of the Recording Academy. She wrote, produced, narrated, and directed her award winning documentary film Silent Journey. Streaming on Culture Unplugged. Publications include, Dissident Voice, Wild Word, Connecticut River Review, One Art, and others. ** Misfortune As I arrived at work, I realized I had forgotten my backpack. The backpack that carries my computer. My computer holds a variety of things; the missing assignments that are well overdue, my science project that I have been working on for well over a year, and the important documents I need for other business. And most importantly, I had forgotten a comfortable shirt. The work shirt feels like it choking me, and I cannot work with it on. Quickly, I sent my mom a message at seven thirteen a.m. “imma be going back home one i get out, cuz i forgot my backpack.” “You want me to take it to you?” she responded at seven thirty-four a.m. “i don’t have my stuff in there. i’ll stop by quickly. i also forgot my shirt.” I said as I told her about my misfortune. “I saw it open, I figured you were missing stuff, so, I just left it.” She replied, closing the discussion. After working for six hours straight, I sat patiently waiting for my car to warm up as the car never fails to show its age. It cannot run smoothly in the cold, or in the heat. At times, it’ll stutter before it starts, luckily, today it didn’t do that. It’s going to be a great day, I remember thinking to myself. I head home, to collect my missing belongings. Once arrived, I argue with my dog, as he does not let me get inside. And I am embarrassed he watched me fumbling with my keys for a short minute. I calm down and I gather the missing pieces; my shirt, my computer, and some deodorant, I had forgotten to put some on that morning. After freshening up, I set my sight on the road and headed towards my next destination. The list of things that need to be accomplished, roam freely in my mind. All aimlessly, without an end goal. Before I got lost in thought once more, I approached an intersection, where the light was freshly yellow. With just enough time, I was able to come to an ungraceful stop. I check my surroundings for safety, and see a blue Dodge Ram rapidly approaching, going thirty to forty miles. It gets closer and closer, no sign of slowing down or stopping. As I get ready to grind my teeth, It happens. It happened. I am forcefully jerked backwards, all the way to the back seat, where my backpack sat right behind me. Panic sits in as I realize my seat is no longer resting in my preferred spot. My car was brutally flung ten feet into the middle of the intersection. What do I do? This has never happened to me before. I had seen it happen to others, and knew it could happen, but I never thought it would. I scrambled to find my phone, and opened it up to dial 911. The keypad is open, waiting for its buttons to be pressed, but my fingers will not follow the pattern I was forced to remember. I thought it was a joke. This didn’t really happen. I wonder if this really was an emergency. “Siri, call 911.” I blurt out. She responds in her robotic voice, “Calling emergency services.” The lady on the other end answers my panicked call, and asks the basic questions. “Where is your emergency located?” “What is your name?” “What is your emergency?" After answering her questions, it was time to get mine out. “Do I pull over to the side of the road? I do not want to cause another accident.” “Yes.” She said. After promptly clearing the intersection, I called my mom to tell her what happened. She answered her phone within three rings and said, “Hello?” “Mom, where are you?” I said, “At Walmart, why?” “I was just in a car accident,” I revealed as the gate for my tears, had finally broken loose. The pain in my back was making itself known. No matter how I moved, the dull pain stabbed me in my midback. I can see the man in the blue Dodge Ram hop out of his truck, and inspect his truck, and then the back end of my Jeep. This time, he cautiously approaches my driver window, and asks if I have insurance. The answer will always be yes. Before I knew it, EMT arrived at the scene and asked if I was in any pain. My response, “No, I don’t think so.” What I really wanted to say was, “I was just rear-ended, what do you think?’’ But I stayed as collected as I could. EMTs had checked my vitals, and my blood pressure was at an all time high. While all the events had finally unfolded in my head, I was rushed to the emergency room. Idania Konna ** Hope and Oxygen In the video on her website, from the top of an overpass, We can see the artist Taylor Seamount looking through a small rectangle. She is painting a herd of cars driving towards her. She is immortalizing her counter-current vision of the future. In this video, she says that “The future is not set in stone”. More trees, more colors, more space. She brings hope and oxygen. I live in Montreal where we have to slalom every day between an army of orange traffic cones. I imagine Taylor Seamount coming to Montreal and painting those cones. She would reimagine them as pretty trees. If this dream is realized, with her exceptional brushwork, Every traffic cone in the city will be metamorphosed into a tree in the warm orange colors of autumn. A delight for our eyes and a big breath of fresh air. Nevertheless, after my encounter with Taylor Seamount‘s Painting Art, thanks to Ekphrastic, I will never see those horrible cones as they are. In my mind they will be an enchanted forest. Jean Bourque Jean is retired from Special Education. Even if is not a writer, this is his tenth participation in The Ekphrastic Challenge. He is learning English as a second language. The Ekphrastic Challenge offers him this opportunity. Language can be a handicap, but it shouldn't prevent anyone from communicating. ** Headlights and Taillights Headlights and taillights But how much we blazed away the hours And travelled through the night To reach the sunlight To see how much has changed Without noticing how much is still just the same When it's dusk or sunrise We all have sentimental leanings For the roads we've left behind The bedsheets that we haven't creased The pillows we haven't cried on Since we drove far away To reach or make some better dreams. It's like the world is on the road with us It's a deluge to depart and find an empty lane Midnight truckers have all the road They departed earliest to find a lay-by A tarmac with a gentle hum a primordial Om Listening to some dolly bird, a hitchhiker Calling herself Beatrix or Beatrice The traveller or the voyager Promising she's lost all her inner demons, isolated rage And finally, it seems she's found some shining hope In a glove compartment that won't close As she peels off a shot, and then all her clothes Dries her tears and blows her nose Watching a million cars go by, honking into the night. No new destinations reached tonight. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Stuck You try faster but it only makes your heart beat through your chest You try narrower but you can’t squeeze by or through You try to escape but you only become more entrapped You try not to think but nothing can stop your mind from disappearing inside of falling apart Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs, https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** Tracked Changes (a villanelle for Reimagining Hwy 1) The road we are on cannot be sustained And who knows how long it will last When will we reimagine a change? Even though we have tried to maintain The congestion of cars will cause a collapse The road we are on cannot be sustained The original plans never could have contained Because this road was formed from conditions of the past When will we reimagine a change? Traffic and fuel prices add to our pains As exhaust and smog raise greenhouse gas The road we are on cannot be sustained Our way of thinking must be retrained A better solution is well within our grasp When will we reimagine a change? Who will stand and break from the chains? And help us get on a better track The road we are on cannot be sustained When will we reimagine a change? Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. ** Farm Hands "And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home... Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means --" Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill "Sometimes things fall apart and come together better." Marilyn Monroe Austin, I-10 West, 1950 1. Why did they pave the roadway that curved upward toward mountains that looked like winter? Ice was an illusion, wasn't it? The dry earth could have been anywhere as long as it was summer and the horses came to the kitchen window when my grandmother cut up carrots. I never asked why I was innocent; glad I was, translating erotica to exotica; why the moths spun silk, infatuated with light like the irrepressible need of a child's hands to gather the messages of fossils. 2. When the creek bed was dry with drought and the willows on the farm wept on back acreage; when the horse at the window had huge brown eyes -- a distinctive face with a knife-blade shape -- my grand- mother named him Dagger. I'd ride, in those days, happy on a horse on that farm by a farm road destined to become a highway; happy as the day was long in a poem* -- so heaven can't reveal what heritage conceals. 3. It was a question of life without a father. My answer was to be a wild child daring danger, determined to ride bareback. My grandfather nicknamed me Tonto his Scout, meant to be his Kemo Sabe, a collector of creek stones that weighed down my pockets when everything I wanted to believe in was hopeful anyway -- like dreams conceived in visionary moments; glimpses of a clear, quartz center, a full moon's magic mirror inside an earth-stone's plain exterior like love's hand-print -- the way you kissed 4. my palm your lips caressing lines that bring to mind the wrinkled indentations on the ram's horn of a favorite sheep, saved when he died and so became a mythic memory of music like the shape of an instrument I'd seen in a picture in a Greek god's hand -- perhaps Apollo's -- his horn played in the centuries before rock bands... before sound stopped for my filly -- I'd named her Easter for the day in springtime -- Easter when she was born. 5. Where was she going? All I could know (what I was told) she'd jumped the cattle guard to reach the road I-10 West, Optimized -- Easter killed by an ambulance speeding toward Austin's City Limits to save someone that sunny day an accident that made death both tragic and ironic... & all the while, I was young and unaware my farm hands busy on the farm, lost that day in a field of wildflowers enchanted by seductive blooms 6. bursting into life that sad summer, one I choose to remember by dents-de-lions, the Lion's Teeth -- as if Austin were a French-speaking town in a Texas jungle with a field of dandelions a weed becoming make a wish and blow, when flower- heads grow old their "hair" like threads -- sepal filaments on a white corolla -- scattered when the winds of wildflower wantonness mingle with the roots of Black-Eyed Susans -- that abandon! 7. living side-by-side with the delicate grace of Queen Anne's Lace -- like trim on a christening dress for floral infancy worn by nature waiting for an Indian Summer a field on canvas created with Indian Paint Brushes that reveal the inevitability of death, the fragility of life, my Easter and the pale pink buttercups dropping paper-thin petals when the sturdy Bluebonnets like Texas pioneers stand tall beside the traffic -- a painting of new age roadways -- the burgeoning strife of highway life. Laurie Newendorp Author's notes: *"Fern Hill," by Dylan Thomas; animal horns and conch shells were used as musical instruments.) Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. A graduate of The Creative Writing Department,The University of Houston, she has been honored many times by The Ekphrastic Review's Challenge. Influenced by her maternal grandmother, who received a Pioneer Teaching Degree -- recognition that she taught before teaching standards were established in early 20th century Texas, she went on in the 1950's, to get a Master's Degree in Education from The University of Texas. Newendorp was raised in Austin. The setting of her poem (her paternal grandparent's farm on what became I-10 West) is one in which she sees a farm's field of wildflowers as a floral connection between worlds, historic and contemporary. Her book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the relationships between life, art and poetry -- the nature of ekphrasis. ** Arcology Marcus Greenbaum leaned back into his Prius driver’s seat. He should have known better than to leave his architectural firm at rush hour. But he had promised his son to come to his Warriors basketball game, 4 and 0, at the high school. As power forward, his son contributed to that for sure. Marcus sighed. If only there were another route besides Highway 1 to get him there. Normally, this would be the fastest way versus the backroads with a stoplight on every corner. If he hadn’t given up smoking last month, he would have lit up. Such a waste of time to sit here, bumper to bumper, headlight to headlight. Everyone inching up when the opportunity allowed, as if that maneuver would get them anywhere faster. He rolled down his window but all he could smell was car exhaust. Fossil fuel emission. He rolled the window back up and turned up the volume on his satellite radio. Maybe contemporary jazz on Watercolors could ease his tension, make him forget about how late he was going to be. If only there were a better, more efficient way. If only, like during the early pre-COVID days when working at home or remotely was called telecommuting. “Save on gas, time, and pollution,” companies told their employees. If only mass transit offered solutions to go from Point A to Point B. But this city had meager funds to put any public transportation alternatives in place. Any recommendations Marcus’s firm made to the city’s Planning Council were rejected. “Great idea,” they said. “But where’s the money going to come from?” Architects and urban planners had no response to that. What buses there were, huffing and puffing along Main Street, exhaled nightmares of black fog. And who wanted to be behind a bus that stopped at every corner, passengers boarding and unboarding? COVID changed everything. Individual, energy-vampire vehicles clogged the roads. No one wanted to wear masks anymore. No one wanted to carpool. Sure, more people worked from home nowadays, but they still needed to get on Highway 1 to run errands, pick up kids, and go to the mall. If only. Marcus stared at the landscape. He could envision eco-friendly buses stopping at a transfer station where commuters could pile into a high-speed, energy efficient monorail to and from the city, a way to reduce the strain of traffic bottlenecks in the city itself. Such a solution would certainly cut down on commutation time and possibly expense, not to mention frustration and stress. Luscious trees could bound the transfer station and the highway. A real green belt. Let everyone breathe. Let the highway breathe without this pulmonary blood clot of vehicles. If only. Traffic began to move. Marcus sat upright. After the game, after the kids went to bed, he planned to plant himself in front of his drafting table in his home office, and draw what he’d seen in his mind’s eye. An arcology master plan. If his son was a warrior power forward, he could be, too. Regeneration was possible. Reuse would be possible. He would make them possible. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner earned a World Art History certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she grappled with the confluence of chronic illnesses. Writing in response to art, including Taylor Seamount's diptych, helps her heal. Her work has been featured in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, and elsewhere. Her first ekphrastic poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Visit Barbara's website at www.barbarakrasner.com. ** To Taylor Seamount Regarding Reimagining Hwy 1 Optimized for Public Transit Beware the ways we need to find requiring we rewire the mind. — PB You juxtapose these views you chose -- reality and re-suppose -- to drive the eye to dream again regarding what so long has been the asphalt river engineered as altar to the faith revered in place to work unfit to stay and graceful living far away -- the style of life, despite its toll transparent to the transient soul, that harkens spirit bravely free to call of all it dares to be. In better dream, should art persist, our work and life would co-exist, apart but barely by the space that each must spare the other's place to serve the spirit made to soar by will the self will dare explore in venture shared becoming mind of future built to leave behind. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Imagine What if our log-jammed roadways had evolved from gentler influences and shared solutions were the main modes of transport and everything. Would a gentler influence engender more caring and kindness? Would sharing, generate appreciation and more sharing? What if it were human nature to remember that “but for the grace of god, go I”. Wouldn’t it follow that it would be a calmer and less grasping, more livable world? What if everyone had the basics; food, water, shelter, clothing, safety and could start living, really living. What if the world's richest contributed just 5% of their wealth to lift billions out of poverty, fund humanitarian efforts, and address other global challenges. What could be elevated with the trapped, untapped potential? What if we could see where the opinions of the other lies. There will still be haves and have-nots, majorities and minorities. If we engaged in honest dialogue and kindness, the world could be a different place. Each of our worlds could be a different place. Imagine that. Kaz Ogino Kaz Ogino is a sansei, Japanese Canadian living in Toronto. Her practice is all about curiosity and wonders of the process, in making art and crafting poems. Kaz’s art and visual poetry can be seen on her Instagram accounts: @artbykaz.ca and @artbykaz.play ** rush hour vs transit dream cars press against cars in the slow-moving grind of routine and resignation time is measured in the inches to the next lane a multihued muraled bus breathes color into the greying asphalt shaded by green trees time is softened by the purposeful sharing of space a yellow line splits these two lanes the funeral march of cars the harsh reality brushstrokes and blooms a reimagined future although both sides move ahead only one leads to the future Nivedita Karthik Nivedita Karthik is a graduate in Immunology from the University of Oxford. She is an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer and published poet. She also loves writing stories. Her poetry has appeared in Glomag, The Ekphrastic Review, The Society of Classical Poets, The Epoch Times, The Poet anthologies, Visual Verse, The Bamboo Hut, Eskimopie, The Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, and Trouvaille Review. Her microfiction has been published by The Potato Soup Literary Journal. She also regularly contributes to the open mics organized by Rattle Poetry. She currently resides in Gurgaon, India, and works as a senior associate editor. She has two published books, She: The reality of womanhood and The many moods of water. Her profile was recently published in Lifestyle Magazine. ** Ode to Youth My septarian brain remains stuck in the ashes while our house burns baby burns My ilk and I we lit the match creating this inferno Now we gaze at our graves we shrug we say alas and alack there's nothing we can do come for a ride in my cadillac Then out of the smog float beads of hope strung like future wishes to fill my soul And yet and yet again I shrug and twiddle my fiddle Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith lives in Montreal, Canada with a message for fellow urbanites: Please don't drive your car to the corner store--it's bad for your health and the health of the planet. Please don't pig out on meat and cheese--it's bad for your health and the health of the planet. As you may have guessed, DLS is a sanctimonious vegan, who buys local produce, walks miles and miles, and doesn't drive.... ** Thumbing Highway One A crowd at every on-ramp. Summer 1968. I saw a teen girl stop her VW beetle for one guy and cry “Stop! Stop!” as 3 more guys piled in somehow and two rode the back bumper—all surfers, teens—up the Capitola onramp, 7 clowns riding a bug. My ride was a canning factory inspector, chatted a foreman in Watsonville while truckloads of artichokes waited in line to dump at a conveyor belt leading into huge metal machinery like coal factories in West Virginia only green, not black. Dropped me at Moss Landing where a one-armed man in a Porsche demonstrated four-on-the-floor shifting with his left arm while steering with his belly, said he gave one arm to Korea in exchange for a woman and she’s his faithful sidekick, his right-hand man. Left me at Carmel where a converted school bus pulled up with peace signs in the window, sweet smell within, down Big Sur to Palo Colorado where a bighearted woman hosted half a dozen crashers eating fruit and beans salvaged from a Safeway dumpster. Turnaround time, got a ride with a Hells Angel kicked out of art school, tight with the bikers painting their leather, took me to Oakland and then I headed east, far from the kindness of strangers, far from the One. Public transit can be whimsical, can be random, can be dangerous, can be love. Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood’s poetry books include Random Saints, Foggy Dog and Son of a Poet. Long ago he wrote an underground novel called Famous Potatoes and recently the award-winning memoir 99 Jobs: Blood Sweat and Houses. His novels for younger readers take place in the fictional town of San Puerco, which bears a striking resemblance to the town of La Honda where he lives under redwoods with his high school sweetheart. He has worked most of his life in the construction trades repairing and improving houses. ** The Cry of Cockatoos I lean by the overbridge in the city of Newcastle watching the orange wall sink, line the gold dust across breadth of dark emptiness. Hurried tempers, trumpet of traffic along the highway, rush to conquer nothingness. Blinking red- Reduce speed Changed traffic conditions. A police car awaits, then races away. Row of pines on my right drooping with white feathers forebode of stalled flights. Siren of an ambulance carrying silence- the cry of cockatoos in tenderness of the moment reimaging life. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Van Gogh On The Morrissey Boulevard Overpass At Night after Sylvia Plath and inspired by the art of Taylor Seamount Stars over Santa Cruz Stars are racing quick as headlamps along the busy Corridor of traffic whose pavement is darker Than the dark of the Pacific because it is quite still. The sea is well. The stars float silently. They seem heavy, yet they float, and no space is visible. Nor do they send up splashes where they fall Or any beacon of dismay or heartache. They are swallowed at once by the waves. Where I am in Zundert, only the faintest stars Play in the gloaming, and then after much encouragement. And they are pale, toned down by such endeavoring. The lonely and unconventional ones never manifest But remain, swirling far away, in their own hot gas. They are outcasts. I cannot comprehend them. They are adrift. But tonight they have journeyed this freeway with no trouble, They are locomotor and confident as the great celestial bodies. The moon is my Indian yellow friend. I miss rain and low-slung clouds. Perhaps they are Hiding behind the mountains Like children playing in the park. Infinite space seems to be the issue up there. Or else there may be smoke from a fire. I am straining to see through the haze. Perhaps they may roll in like ocean fog. And, my dear Theo, what if they are the same, And it is my mind that has made a waking dream? Such a thrall of stellar majesty would alarm me. The sky that I am used to is grey and unforgiving; I think it would not wish for a night without black And made of ultramarine and cobalt blue. It is too solemn and solitary for that-- When it spirals and sinks closer around, A mantle like flannel on fairied ground. And where I stand now, above Highway 1, I see cloud formations in my mind, Unbothered by the flow of automobiles. There is too much sky here; these cars move me too much. From the bridge, with its view of the peaks, each engine Is accounting for its driver. I close my eyes And feel the plain winds like whispers of God. Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mother of four. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press). ** The Topography of Ambition It's the road that cuts through everything sparing what little it can --of grassland and woods, the personal property of farm and heart. Yet, somewhere en route, the regrets keep drifting in. Their exhalations spent like milkweed over stalk or bush. The traffic backed up with memories of what has been but never was. Yet, in one tree the conscience sings. A vocalist strumming his old guitar, A ballad about love and sacrifice, the moan of sea gulls after a storm; and a fisher girl stooping in the tide to scavenge what's ever left. Wendy A. Howe Wendy Howe is an English teacher who lives in California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, women in conflict and history. Landscapes that influence her writing include the seacoast and high desert where she has formed a poetic kinship with the Joshua trees, hills and wild life spanning ravens, lizards and coyotes. She has been published in the following journals: The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Corvid Queen, Strange Horizons, The Acropolis Journal and many others.  The Birdcage, by Harue Koga (Japan) 1924 Join us for biweekly ekphrastic writing challenges. See why so many writers are hooked on ekphrasis! We feature some of the most accomplished, influential writers working today, and we also welcome emerging or first time writers and those who simply want to experience art in a deeper way or try something creative.
The prompt this time is The Birdcage, by Harue Koga. Deadline is April 25, 2025. You can submit poetry, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, microfiction, or any other form creative writing you like. 1000 words max please. The Rules 1. Use this visual art prompt as a springboard for your writing. It can be a poem or short prose (fiction or nonfiction.) You can research the artwork or artist and use your discoveries to fuel your writing, or you can let the image alone provoke your imagination. 2. Write as many poems and stories as you like. Send only your best works or final draft, not everything you wrote down. (Please note, experimental formats are difficult to publish online. We will consider them but they present technical difficulties with web software that may not be easily resolved.) Please copy and paste your submission into the body of the email, even if you include an attachment such as Word or PDF. 3. There is no mandatory submission fee, but we ask you to consider a voluntary donation to show your support to the time, management, maintenance, and promotion of The Ekphrastic Review. It takes an incredible amount of time to curate the journal, read regular and contest submissions, etc. Paying all expenses out of pocket is also prohibitive. Thank you. A voluntary gift does not affect the selection process in any way. Scroll down to donate $5CAD (about $3.75 USD). 4. USE THIS EMAIL ONLY. Send your work to [email protected]. Challenge submissions sent to the other inboxes will most likely be lost as those are read in chronological order of receipt, weeks or longer behind, and are not seen at all by guest editors. They will be discarded. Sorry. 5.Include KOGA CHALLENGE in the subject line. 6. Include your name and a brief bio. If you do not include your bio, it will not be included with your work, if accepted. Even if you have already written for The Ekphrastic Review or submitted other works and your bio is "on file" you must include it in your challenge submission. 7. Late submissions will be discarded. Sorry. 8. Deadline is midnight EST, April 25, 2025. 9. Please do not send revisions, corrections, or changes to your poetry or your biography after the fact. If it's not ready yet, hang on to it until it is. 10. Selected submissions will be published together, with the prompt, one week after the deadline. 11. Due to the demands of the increasing volume of submissions, we do not send out sorry notices or yes letters for challenge submissions. You will see what poetry and stories have been selected when the responses are posted one week after the deadline. Understand that we value your participation as part of our ekphrastic community, but we can only choose a handful of the many entries we receive. 12. A word on the selection process: we strive for a balance between rewarding regular participants and sharing the voices of writers who are new to our family. We also look for a variety of perspectives and styles, and a range of interesting takes on the painting. It is difficult to reproduce experimental formatting, so unfortunately we won't choose many with unusual spacing or typography. 13. By submitting to The Ekphrastic Review, you are also automatically joining our subscribers' list. Your submission is your permission. We don't send spam and we don't send many emails- you will not receive forty-four emails a day! Our newsletter occasionally updates you on some of the challenges, news, contests, prize nominations, ekphrastic happenings, prompt ebooks, workshops, and more. 14. Rinse and repeat with upcoming ekphrastic writing challenges! 15. Please share this prompt with your writing groups, Facebook groups, social media circles, and anywhere else you can. The simple act of sharing brings readers to The Ekphrastic Review, and that is the best way to support the poets and writers on our pages! 16. Check this space every Friday for new challenges and selected responses, alternating weekly.  Rocky River, by Cookie Wells (USA) 2024. Click on image for artist site. When I Get Back Personal Log: Day 57* I think right now we are above the Allegheny River. When standing at the shore, the water never looks the pristine blue it does from the station’s windows. The brown of the land jagged, sharp, and smooth at the same time. But I was never any good at geography, so it could be the Ohio or even Mississippi River. I wouldn’t know, too busy to stop and study any particular river. But, boy, do I have the time now. When I get back to earth, I will figure out which it is and visit, put my feet in the water and enjoy the earth rolling under my feet. Dani would like that. Before I left, she wanted to be Indiana Jones, go white-water rafting and zip-lining. It’s only been a measly 57 days since launch, and the atmosphere surrounding earth is embedded with my thoughts of her. In Aliens, Ripley wakes up after 57 years to discover her daughter has lived and died while she floated and slept through the darkest parts of space, so perspective. I wonder if the molecules of water floating down that river will be there to greet me when I eventually splash down from space into the ocean. A homecoming for us both after a long, tired journey. We’ll get there, little molecules, I know it. Samantha Gorman *Inspired in part by the situation of the stranded NASA Expedition 71 astronauts that returned to earth on March 18, 2025. Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel. ** To Cookie Wells Regarding Rocky River Defiant rock steadfast will stand to bend the blue by blunt demand not recognizing sculpting force of rapids running rampant course reshaping such resistance shown to be mere setting blue as stone commands by gleam in moment filled that, sensing gem, your brush has stilled as texture of the movement seen majestically you reconvene in rivulets of vivid inks from which the water swiftly shrinks to leave their thin acrylic stain adrift as motion they sustain. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Aqua An aerial topography from space, some station, satellite? Here focus not on landed mass but river crashing, rocky route - as rocky roads, sweetmeats I eat - gives mix of boulders, H20. These hints in range, aquamarine, clear water (earth shows no such thing), contrasting tints of dun, blue hues, in show of courses, sources, wells. Will current streams give way to ice as bergs break free from well packed cliffs or steam from pyroclastic flows, spurt slow fast blast from lava scree? Delta, dunes, sure lines emerge as depths described in bubble wrap, with shingle, stones and pebble marks outlining limits, liquid draw. What scene by eyes will soon be seen, translated into painterly? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by online poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com. ** Dammed River What happens when fear and dread dam the deepest river the stream that flows below the id? This bank though strong and forgiving demands fresh water to splash the soul’s sand and wash it clean. If this water lingers too long, can it ever flow again? Will it stay blue and vibrant ‘til a savior comes? Or will it turn black with sludge and harden the bank to stone? Margo Stutts Toombs A self-proclaimed internal humorist, Margo Stutts Toombs creates and dwells in wacky worlds. She loves to perform her work at Fringe festivals, art galleries or anywhere food and beverages are served. Her poetry and flash pieces dance in journals, anthologies, and chapbooks. Margo also loves to produce videos. Sometimes, these videos screen at film festivals. One of her favorite pastimes is co-hosting the monthly poetry/flash readings at the Archway Gallery in Houston, Texas. Check out her shenanigans at https://www.margostuttstoombs.com/ or on social media - https://www.facebook.com/margo.toombs/ ** Down the Riverside Down the riverside, land and nature awaiting, the calming of life. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018, her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019, and In A Flash, in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. ** What My Eyes See What my eyes see Is the pathway of light The nervous system Making new connections Cells and neurones activating A whole universe interactive What my eyes see Is the atom and the neutron The interplay of everything The binary code of life Rewriting itself selflessly. Without end or beginning What my eyes see Is visionary and yet normal To me. A cosmic light show With a neon afterglow That energizes my heart And touches my soul. What my eyes see Is spooky action at a distance? The entanglement of everything Awakening in a primordial dream Life under a microscope Never before seen. What my eyes see Is no distraction to me. It is the fabric of my canvas. The oils and the watercolours Of my choice, merging poured out For all to immerse in and be immersed. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity, and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** Zoom In The sun is high The wind cool And I am hungry I leap from the conifer Lifted higher And blown south Turning and tilting Eyeing the terrain below I float-search The grinding of years Has sharpened rocks below Ground a golden beach Around a lake Of vibrant blue Shimmering with life I descend Dean Luttrell Dean Luttrell, a Houston poet, pianist and artist has been writing poetry since high school. His work has been published in Archway Readers 20th and 25th Anniversary Anthologies and was awarded Third Prize in the Houston Poetry Fest’s Ekphrastic Poetry Competition in 2016. ** How To See Earl says that every painting has a splash of orange near its centre, a visual anchor to guide the eye, keep it from wandering willy-nilly from one edge of the canvas to the other in aimless arcs, thus missing the point the brush was meant to make. We are in a gallery, it is Sunday; Earl is wearing his leather hat, holds his leather bag over his shoulder-- he says he likes to be ready to go somewhere, hates to feel stuck, the way a painting can seem to flow but go nowhere. Earl says this guilelessly, as if he means it not as a line in seduction but as information: news I can use in this museum today and that museum tomorrow, something to remember, to repeat to myself and in doing so to bring back Earl and this moment, like a time stamp that (long after I’ve discarded his gifts and washed away the sour mash of his kisses) remains fresh and present. I wonder if I can find something equivalent, some mark or scent that will tell me where to plant my eye, where to start unraveling the random threads of Earl’s being, find the point at which I should have known better. Susan Levi Wallach Susan Levi Wallach has been published in such journals as Solstice, Rivanna Review, Bacopa Literary Review, Bayou Magazine, The Moth, Southern California Review, and The Thomas Wolfe Review (as a winner of the Thomas Wolfe Fiction Prize). Her opera Elijah's Violin was performed in San Francisco in 2018. She has an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Website lingolit.wordpress.com/ ** Butterfly Wings This period of transition. A pupa, a chrysalis. A suspended time capsule, outward silence masking an inward tumultuous river of change. Mystery soon to be revealed. Butterfly wings on the verge of unfolding, preparing for flight. Of course, I'm not talking about butterflies. Mark Jodon Mark Jodon is the author of two full-length books of poetry, Miles of Silence (Kelsay Books 2024) and Day of the Speckled Trout (Transcendent Zero Press 2015). He is an Iconoclast Artist (www.iconoclast artists.org) and also serves on the board of directors for Houston Performing Arts. He lives in Houston, Texas. ** Thirteen Ways of Playing Tapas after Wallace Stevens and based on the music of Alice Coltrane Among four jazz musicians, The only moving things Were the strings of her harp. II She was of one aim, Like a fire In which there burns one flame. III The audience delighted in the cosmic chords. It was a central piece of the pageant. IV A husband and a wife Are one. A husband and a wife and a song Are one. V I do not know which meant more The music at Birdland Or the meeting of souls The quartets thrumming Or just after. VI Water flowed along the river With savage rocks. The reflection of the bird Swooped across, to and fro. The spirit Shone in the silhouette An imperceptible mood. VII O widows of Dix Hills, Why do you dream of endless joy? Do you not see how blank grief Splashes around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know technical talents And rehearsed, academic compositions; But I know, too, That a dynamism is involved In what I hear. IX When the heart cried out of loneliness, It signaled the birth Of one of many changes. X At the sound of syncopation Flying in the summer breeze Even the students of theory Would put down their books. XI She walked through Woodland Hills In orange robes. Once, a bolt struck her, In that she mistook The dissonance of nature For Stravinsky. XII The river is moving. The swan must be flying. XIII It was tomorrow all afternoon. It was raining And it was going to rain. The woman sat at the golden harp. Lara Dolphin A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mother of four. Her chapbooks include In Search Of The Wondrous Whole (Alien Buddha Press), Chronicle Of Lost Moments (Dancing Girl Press), and At Last a Valley (Blue Jade Press). ** Muddy Water Is it useful to see yourself in fragments? Or is it impossible to reconcile all the different pieces and points of view? The face in the water surprises; the reflection in the faces of others astonishes. Who are you really? And In your dreams? The you that shapeshifts so easily into aqueous behavior—is that a mask or the psyche turning inside out? But then you perceive the world in fragments too--coherent to a point, and then adorned with shapes and objects that don’t seem to belong--something always in flux, threads woven into shimmering light. The real world—is it actually “natural”? What does that even mean? Complex, overlapping, its edges ragged, its boundaries indistinct—is that universal, innate? The lines are uneven, angles skewed—is that organic? Why do I clothe myself in things I am not? What shelters me? What is the source of the rivers that flood my veins, my brain, the cosmic lucidity that currents its path around the stoned barriers of gravity? Or is that my idea of outer space, based on the photos of faraway galaxies, of emptiness and light, that feed my hunger for mystery? How true are they, how close to a representation of what is? What is? the eye can lie, just like the mirror, just like who we think we are-- is abstract just another word for riddle, for incomplete? Kerfe Roig Kerfe Roig resides in NYC where she finds that both she and her surroundings transform daily. ** Rocky River gushes from canyon swollen by melting snow rolls its boulder bed down the mountainside. Endless thirsty prairie awaits not far away. Joseph R. Larsen Joseph R. Larsen’s poetry has been featured in publications as varied as Dope Fiend Daily, Chaos Dive Reunion by Mutabilis Press, Equinox by hotpoet, Synkroniciti, Blonde on Blonde, North Country, The Panhandler, Spiky Palm, and the Texas Lawyer. When he is not restlessly writing, Larsen practices law including defending First Amendment rights. He was honoured in 2010 by the Freedom of Information Foundation of Texas with its James Madison Award. ** River Therapy Webs of swooning capillaries any of the fine branching streams penetrating mountain flanks. Water wraps, swiftly surrounding as melting snow shivers its banks and the river’s hunger mounts its gush of refusing confinement flush as if her water broke. Say this morning is the beginning of the world. Who’s to know it’s not? Margaret Koger Margaret Koger was raised on an acreage near the Snake River and later moved to Boise, where she taught English and composition in the Boise Schools and at Boise State University. She is a Lascaux Prize finalist and her works have appeared in numerous journals as well as in What These Hands Remember (Kelsay, 2022) and If Seasons Were Kingdoms (Fernwood Press 2024). Instagram @maggiekoger ** The Butterfly Effect The jewelled beauty lands, sits: apatura iris resting on the oak Camera at hand I snap, maximum zoom, macro mode Later, on my laptop screen bottomless depths emerge Fractals unfold, unfurl, spread like rich inks bleeding into paper Browns become river banks dark purple's the water's edge White wing-eyes are morphing so that blooms of frost appear Resolved, it's winter snowmelt retreating, thin capillary streams feeding the river A tiny wing becomes a landscape organic patterns that keep repeating One flap from the purple emperor butterfly Rocky River's rambunctious story is revealed Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print, most recently The Lothlorien Poetry Journal. ** Sapphire Seduction My eyes play tricks on me-- is that azure river surrounded by sand? A mermaid’s teardrop shaped pendant? A spinning dolphin makes palm fronds dance like fans celebrating no hands. In crystalline crosswinds I’m distracted by loam so rich each toe digs in. Is that coral? And NW, do I conjure an oyster shell? I flounder to make sense of what my senses can’t conceive in slick seaweed grass. How to break free of razor-edged ultramarine glass? To be that sharp. Oh, no, the bends! Belly flop onto jagged reefs? A blunder! Bet I can float. Margo Davis Margo Davis maintains there’s nothing so rich as the interplay of visual art and poetry. In fact, she tries to get out of its way. Margo’s poems have appeared in many Ekphrastic Review issues, Equinox Journal, Passager and in 2026, Uncoupling (Lamar University Literary Press). ** benign a rare mollusk mass blooms cobalt in the saltwater rocky river of my breast, like a shiny metallic mylar balloon—a tiny octopod plucked from the copper blood bunch floating in ochre sands of fatty tissue as veins map pearly traces of milk from an ancient abundant sea Heather Brown Barrett Heather Brown Barrett is an award-winning poet in southeastern Virginia. She mothers her young son and contemplates life, the universe, and everything with her writer husband. She is a member and regular student of The Muse Writers Center, a member of The Poetry Society of Virginia, and a former board member of Hampton Roads Writers. Her work has appeared in Literary Mama, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, Black Bough Poetry, OyeDrum Magazine, and elsewhere. She’s the author of Water in Every Room (Kelsay Books, 2025), her debut book of poetry. Website: https://heatherbrownbarrett.com/. ** Dreamscape A few nights ago, despite the howling wind that blew down the privacy fence shared with our new neighbors, I had the longest, quietest, nothingest dream of my life. Complete peace. The image was an abstract like those phosphenes that float about under your eyelids in vibrant colours. Only it hovered in view, accompanied by some abstract New Age music I couldn’t hum along with. The vision only wavered a bit without changing colors, clearly a harbinger of spring. There was a mound of dirty snow piled up in a parking lot, or maybe clouds hovering over the water and shoreline, the blue inlet brighter than the Mediterranean. Even stranger was the vibrant orange of sunflowers. Was this some Rorschach test? My first thought: “I’ve never witnessed anything like this.” But a few days later I found it, a painting called Rocky River online, published just days after my dream. Next I discovered the artist’s website. I sure hope she doesn’t charge me for my sleep. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City, MO.Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** Love is a Rocky River After looking up at the frothy clouds, we see a blue flower hypnotize us near the bayou. Pewter-colored icicles adorn as the winter cast. I remember ripples etched on an ornament we ignored after the hook vanished for the stone pine. For you, I want to find diamonds and scorpions and supergiant stars, but my insides are drunk on liquid marijuana. Time is the undercurrent. The currency of souls while we wash old soil by the banks. The matter of weighing down sanity. Let’s meow to touch moon skin. See, bluebirds petrify in a nest. Please, unlock my chilled hand tucked in your corduroy pocket. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review, Panoply, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. His fifth collection of poems is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. ** Blue River I swim upstream oh my love in the river of your body like a salmon I surge through rocky rapids I leap for joy against time I swim to a mountain pool shape of a heart where dragonflies hover iridescent blue If you choose oh my love I shall enter we shall divide in our joining and again divide and again we shall cling we shall grow as one endlessly we shall float downstream through rocky rapids that shape us as the river grows wide We shall kick oh my love against confinement we shall tumble down a waterfall to the waiting hands to the breast of ocean to the adventure of a lifetime Joe Cottonwood Joe Cottonwood dwells in fog beneath redwood trees in the hamlet of La Honda, California. |
Challenges
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