Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Black Magic

In the early morning hours a small, round, figure makes her way toward me, the breeze lifting her white hair from her shoulders. I detect a note of an eastern European language in her morning greeting.

In her wake, a vigilant, silent, squad, glides from tree, to fence, to tree, feathers shinning black as coal in the morning sun. Together they make their slow procession along the path.

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