It was a blustery winter's day. Danny and I were talking in the courtyard when at least a hundred strange beasts flew over. Loud monkey hoots and screeches filled the air. They tumbled in the breeze like autumn leaves, broad and paper thin with white fringes on their sides and down their long thin tails. Changing colors simultaneously, yellow to blue to red, sifting through the limbs of trees and disappearing en mass over the blue horizon.
I looked at Danny. Dumbfounded.
"Sail monkeys." Said Danny. "Wildlife agents released them to curb the overabundance of Glider Turtles."
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
waxing gibbous
Butterscotch shadows flickered on the ceiling.
The katydid's relentless cadence creaked and groaned in the darkness like an old rocking chair.
"Can you hear them?" She asked.
"I cannot." I whispered.
Gazing now, I asked.
"If the moon sang, what would be the song?"
"Depends on the phase." She said.
"Full"
"It would be a jolly song." She replied.
"A jolly song indeed." I agreed.
The drive home revealed a butterscotch moon. Canted westward.
Waxing gibbous.
Three quarters jolly on the night's last refrain.
The katydid's relentless cadence creaked and groaned in the darkness like an old rocking chair.
"Can you hear them?" She asked.
"I cannot." I whispered.
Gazing now, I asked.
"If the moon sang, what would be the song?"
"Depends on the phase." She said.
"Full"
"It would be a jolly song." She replied.
"A jolly song indeed." I agreed.
The drive home revealed a butterscotch moon. Canted westward.
Waxing gibbous.
Three quarters jolly on the night's last refrain.
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