"Contemplation," Aradhna Tandon
	Amy MacLennan Falling Red dust. Each day she wipes red dust from everything she owns. Her mismatched furniture. A kettle she cooks with. The floor of her board and batten shanty. She sees no one on twenty acres of creekflat, watches the earth crack in summer. And never calls home. She needs the air here for her thoughts to reach the skyline. The room so the chatter won't crowd back. Her mother sends money. Some of it she keeps. She doesn't need much. Just the kettle. And the shanty. And the space for dust to fall, one speck at a time.