Sunday, July 24, 2011

Exile No Longer

It was 2:20, the time Dove had chosen to return from the confused wilderness of Brunswick Street, a time that shrugged at the yard’s Sunday lunch menu of cracked corn, for was he not a new bird?
     A time at which Swan would be lounging among the lilypads: was he not a bird whose counterclockwise swoop ’round the willow would showcase an empathetic right profile, kin to Mikael Blomkvist’s in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo?
     A time with two “two”s: was he not romantic?
     He swooped, he landed, and she was not there. A crazed shrieking split the air.


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