"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..."
"That giggling infantile phantom she desperately wanted and needed to feel needed by..."
She caressed the steel and the tines, then the snowy porcalin which contained that bottomless dark roast. "What is around that edge of bricks?", She whispered to the morning gusts of wind.
Aye, but it didn't feel as long as that slow dragging slide of her spine down the trunk of the Old Hornbeam Tree.
Nothing else had such a way of making the child lose herself... quite like a sunset.
