Gathering by Beth Konkoski I see the wild places ungroomed, untrammeled, unwatched until I intrude, add my steps, my quiet eyes, my pen. They give me, these places, no attention, continue long after I have left. The bones of a beech tree brittle and spined, husk of a puffball small twist of smoking spores, a frothing spring, some deep belly gurgle spat from a cave beneath roots, the red of a leaf, new fallen and placed by planetary forces in the center of a puddle black with old rain. These I gather, hold onto and breathe in as I journey back. Gyroscope Review 43 !