To be told by the cawing of the crow, the breathing of the distant sea, and the soft kiss of the breeze upon his naked bald pate, "You are now and have heretofore been still more than all of this. Keep existing my friend and lover."
She closes her eyes to the feeling of her fingernails underwater. She doesn’t see the black of eyelids but instead- the deep green of quiet air under the pond’s surface.
“And suddenly, these most petite of little performers scattered, aghast in a flurry of membrane wings and tutu's as if in a melodrama at the sight of a looming figure approaching…”
"A magical ritual which required as many seconds as salt crystals and grains of brown sugar; as many hours as pieces of garlic. And Denisa and the Gears turned a song as the brisket brined and marinated away..."
"She can't see the pigeons anymore. But she hears them take to the sky in bursts. The sunlight breathes on her knitted skin. She can't see the tower anymore..."
"O, It can be a scary business- the clandestine life of a scarecrow who wants to dance..."
Aye, but it didn't feel as long as that slow dragging slide of her spine down the trunk of the Old Hornbeam Tree.
"Maggie saw him hoist aloft his tiny quarry with spry glee, his face seemed to crack in two with more crows feet than a murder into what she thought was the biggest smile since she said yes to him..."
