“Four beating wings” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Monday September 9, 2019
10:04am
5 minutes
The Dalliance of Eagles
Walt Whitman

You drive down the long gravel road to the swamp where Mary used to walk. You feel her when you’re there and that brings something warm to the cold parts brings something soft to the hard parts.

You see a egret and remember the time that Mary made Shepherd’s Pie and set the stove on fire. You hear a crake, a waterhen, a grebe. You long for her in a way you’ve never longed for something. The usual suspects (fame, love, knowing), they pale in comparison to how badly you wish you could hold Mary’s face in your palms and tell her that you finally went to the Elora Gorge. You know what her eyes would do. They’d sparkle before they teared, they’d become pools of goodness. A waterhen lands right near you and cocks her head to the left.

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