Within a few weeks of her escape, the girl outgrew her only dress and had nothing to wear. Trying not to make a fuss, I gave her something of mine. She thanked me. She looked so ashamed. That she, a ... [+]
There was a wildertinge to the air—purple-scented, fennel fronds shaking green as partiesfiligreed as when a child I used to drawmermaid and merman's hair. A storm blowingthrough, wind in the tunnel of the throat and rushingfrom the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.The pines wave back and forth, thrashthe sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.To be of the storm, to enter it. To be entirely air.