Tim goes indoors holding a feather in each hand warbling, "Look mom, I’m a bird." To which his mother snaps, "Stay outside; I don’t want bird shit on my carpet."
"I was just fooling, mom."
"Well, I’m not."
Pushing back the screen door, down paint thinning stairs, wedging through weathered fence rails and crossing thistled fields, Tim flies to the bronze cow-pond on old man Schuler’s property. Walking round the filthy watering hole, his feet leave shallow hollows, muddy…
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Posted on February 13, 2010 at 12:00am — 6 Comments