The Silver Trumpet Brayed

That sorry friend is returned I fear, rising from the damp twigs and mud that clog the cleats of my shoes. I catch a glimpse of a shadow now and then, hear footsteps in the dark and feel the heavy heat of recent visitors lingering in the cold of un-heated rooms. This witch, this sad witch whose sorry life has no more to commend it than a series of disconnected ventures is home again, home where she belongs doing what she has always done and getting what she has always got.

posted by Weasel @ 5:53 PM