Wind·hōv·er·ing

1. v. To hurl oneself headlong on wimpling wing toward brute beauty, as in the manner of G.M. Hopkins’ The Windhover.

2. n. The writing portfolio website of Jerry Windley-Daoust.

New Words

A tree with bare branches against a gray winter sky.
Poetry

If the Blackbird Can Sing in the Dead of Winter

It’s been a post-apocalyptic winter around here,the sun smothered by ash-gray rags sodden with snow,the snow wrung out on our heads by the bony handsof Arctic winds. Some ancient ice god wants us dead,judging by the icy daggers he hangs around our houses.At night, he presses his face against the black windowsand claws at our…

Unmasked
Notes in Glass Bottles

Unmasked

This week, I walked into our local Kwik Trip convenience store without slipping on a mask for the first time in more than a year. It was a little anticlimactic, given how long we’ve waited for this day to come—everyone else in the store, similarly unmasked, went around buying bananas and milk and eggs and…

Jeremiah Peach Makes His Deadline
Short stories

Jeremiah Peach Makes His Deadline

Here’s a short story I wrote in the spring of 2020 about the editor of a small-town newspaper whose recent cancer diagnosis causes him to re-think his definition of “news.” Someday, I hope to write a longer work about Jeremiah and the staff of The Weekly Whisperer. In the meantime, enjoy! Jerry Jeremiah Madison Peach…

A fresh new look for Windhovering
News

A fresh new look for Windhovering

You know the old saw about disaster being opportunity in disguise? When my Windhovering portfolio website went down a few months ago, it felt like a disaster…I am diligent about keeping backups, but in this case, the backup was unrecoverable. It’s a long, tedious, and uninteresting story, so I’ll spare you the details. But over…

My Black Thumb of a Spring
Notes in Glass Bottles

My Black Thumb of a Spring

Every spring, I have great ambitions for the eighth of an acre of sand, weeds, rabbits, and squirrels that is our backyard. So far, though, this spring has been a real bummer as far as gardening goes…a real “black thumb spring,” as I’ve come to call it. The rabbits got under my floating row covers…

To the Tomato Gods
Poetry

To the Tomato Gods

A poem, with a side of basil. If it’s miracles you’re after,then in the darkest days of Decemberpurchase packets of tomato seedsand hold them close, like holy cards,and recite the litany of their namesas a stay against winter’s cruel claws:Brandywine, Oxheart, Black Krim, Rosella;Honey Gold, Pink Girl, Moon Glow, Tigerella;Chianti Rose, Sunrise, Orange Jazz, Tangella….

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