|Road to Chiricahua|
|Clouds stringing along|
|Moonlit mountains and desert|
Long ago, centuries perhaps, the village of Greenwillow had been stood in the corner and forgotten.
Dorrie put her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists and stared, gray-eyed and interested. It did seem hard on Mrs. Briggs that she should have wedded a wandering man, and hard on Gideon too, left with a farm and a fistful of kinfolk.
When they came near the little meadow, they could hear Gideon’s scythe singing and the silky whisper of tall grass dropping down, and the late grasshoppers talking around the edge. The scent followed the scythe, the hot oven smell of yellow turning brown, the dusty-powder smell of clover, the sharp smell of bruised pennyroyal like a plume in the air….
One of the first sentences I formed in Italian class was ‘Mio fratello vuole essere mia sorella”: “My brother wants to be my sister.”
Oh, what the hell! I’ll go on a bit longer.
Often have I lain thus, when the fact, that if I laid much longer I would actually freeze to death, would come over me….
|Spanish moss -- miles away from the desert!|