After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.

The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

131 thoughts on ““Sweet Bird”

  1. Captivating and intriguing Rene. Nobody paints scenes like you do. The images of the black gulls as seen from a drowning person was striking. The sounds of struggle muted but heard anyway in my mind. And the opening of another mystery as the speaker peruses the Princess and her gigolo sent me down another path of thoughts within memories, within images faded and nearly forgotten. You possess a magic pen that cast spells as easy as it inks enamored words with a soft melancholy. Always a pleasure to read.

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          1. I’m having more fun than Karma allows and I’m going to do my, “bring on the cool weather dance” just as soon as I can get a non disclosure agreement from the local chipmunk cabal. I can’t have them uploading vids of that on YouTube. 🤠🐿

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          2. Waaa haaa haaa! There were three of us. One friend I served with and my regular hiking buddy. We got to the top and they were having a rescue dog fair. We represented well. One darling little girl gave me the stink eye and said I smell like a cat. Considering the trek up that mountain, I took it as a compliment. (Cheaters take the road and drive to the top) we also saw a lot of deer. One yearling doe walked up to my hiking buddy and then changed her mind and left hastily. Probably because we smelled like cats. 🙀

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  2. Sweet Holly of Prose should be a book.
    Images on the edge of breathtaking, but stopping short inside of reality. I love this!
    I’ll have to check out what “Oron has done!
    Speaking of which, I left a message somewhere in you
    guys banter, but I don’t see it?
    Anyway, before any more blog visits, I’m answering your mail. I took an update of the Décolletage.

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