The wind raked her hair — the color of the dried grasses atop the bluff. Eyes the shade of the horizon followed a line from my finger to the rock. Fifteen feet up, emerging, a nest of scallops five million years dead. The next storm will shatter them, an evanscence there with us and over far too soon.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
There is a truly gorgeous piece of writing at Creek Running North you owe it to yourself to read.