East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle…
Inside this inner bubble, the world floats by, bobbling.
She don’t trust men who masquerade, men holier than thou, men who lead the pack. These men deceive. They are charlatans, these men without chaos.
Claire is misunderstood by all. She’s a black sheep, an outlaw, a high-heeled gunslinger.
The eagle flew down to the mouse. Horrified, the mouse surrendered his ball of cheese in which he had spent an entire month to gather. The eagle spoke placidly, “I have not come to eat you, or your cheese. Come fly with me.”
The girl had never seen the sun set from this particular bend in the river. The way the bank was bent allowed the light to shine in such a way that it unrolled a golden carpet across the surface of the water.