For all at once the breeze blew into a storm and collapsed the tent around her shoulders, over his head.
He lifted the bank of blankets along the banks of the river Jordan while she swung low her sweet chariot to the rumble of the clarinets rising from the fourth-grade band serenading the monkeys along the sequestered vale, benighted subterrain, and the lax hillocks in the low country. The bridge or someplace earlier if only we had a standing schedule of trains, melancholy would join us for a game of poker on the windlass goldbugs in the bitter beignets of northern Italy. Longing for the revelation, the filched pennies breezed along the avenue with nothing but lint in their pockets, growing older and wiser day by day.
The monkeys gave him the key to Davy Jones’s locker, and the animals gave her the key to the house of their fairy godmother. The rising sun gave nothing to everyone because the tea was only at the top two, not three.
Originally published January 1, 2024
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Like that philosopher dude who waded in that river only to remark, “This is cold a.f.!”
Oh, my. There absolutely must be tea if the sun is up.