XXVII.

Crafty old traditions, they are. Messed up paper training. Shells dug up, the ones that were supposed to be remained hidden, so the little bugs can come back tomorrow and get them. It wouldn't be allowed to take them home. Tomorrow makes it different. Those shells would still be there if I hadn't seen the boys hide them there. I was crafty too. I wated for them to leave. What a surprise it must have been when tomorrow came.

 

        The waters were barely warm enough to stick your feet in them. I swam there anyway. And the little broken shells, this ones I took buckets of home with me, were too course to walk upon, but at least now I know what to call it. A stable of horses running the track gracefully and with ease. The circus wasn't fun, airplanes flew overhead in a roar every fifteen minutes. Barrages scared me. 

 

        Damsels. Bitches. I thought growing up meant naturally becoming one of them. That was the mark of adulthood. Fleeting genres and flashes on a board. Popeye eyes wandering aimlessly as a trademark developing some new costume to try on. Plexiglass hands.

 

        A juniper sat on my arm and talked to me, perspiring moisture glands, a communist I was sure. It looked like those pictures on stamps.

RIVER BED   100

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