Forty Thieves

“It’s no wonder I love coming here,” I said as Tony sang my name from the piano. Jazz rippled from his fingers and floated around the club, settling on his faithful fans like a blanket of Fourth of July sparklers.

A Minnesota farmer who writes, Brent grows corn, wheat, soy, and sentences. He has 1200 acres, a website, a balky tractor, books, weather disasters, and a humorous, thought-provoking column that I read without fail. His travelogues (China, anyone?) are the best.

A dear online friend—a writer who works as an artist. I wrote a poem to an infant who died in utero, and Tracy wrote one back from him. It is my only communication from the brother I never had.