SmokeLong Quarterly

She was not fifteen, clutch of violets in hand. Aboard the field she found a proper clearing; it was there she took the violets, sat waiting for keel. Is the sky not fine today, she thought. Would she not fancy seeing the deckhands so high, and the sea like a sheet of tin. The check blanket was took out, and though no cautionary hand lay on her shoulder, she (not fourteen) kept bolt straight, lowered to kneel. From here there was the sea, from this clearing—the sea was, by her doing, accessory to a handful of blown violets.

Still, the headmistress bade her sit up; even in August she was attended by proscription. Could she not let her skirts fall lightly on this handsome check, arch her back against the beating sun, point toes? Why the ghost of vocabulary cards while she waited for keel.

There was the keel, and pearl sails, and the hands in shirts. A clearing by the cliff, this find. Then a man looking up, whose face was a marked sphere only, whose hair was a cap. She was like a sitter in rows at the theater, certain the look was not for her, that the lead looked simply into lights, but how the bird in her body rose for a shining moment!

So, should she move.