Harvest

What a season scrubs dry from the young mouth
of another changeling. What Henri calls a shaft of light
falling on the unwashed parquet floors. What others may choose
in those blue hours. There is this, and then: a radio tuned
to the weather station, a weather

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.