My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and ... [+]
I have seen this movie before,I know how it ends, with troops in the streets,and the charred bones of buildings,so I turn away from the ruthless images,and, just as quietly as I can, leanon the railing of the back deckand wait for the gray fox to appearfrom the dark tangled underbrushinto an evanescent strip of bright sunlight.