By Heidie Raine
The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that does not require his attention.
Sitting in the library, looking through the thick-paned glass of the upper-level windows, I am staring. I am squinting and watching and questioning all that passes below. This is what I see:
I see a boy with olive cargo pants and a faint mustache topple off his longboard, roll like a bowling ball and land in the frosted crunch of cold spring ...