Written by Guy J Jackson on Sunday the 14th of February 2010
Cascaded the sand did. Never by a canoe, never by a rowboat. They limped across the grump of Turkey. Nice birds, those, the ones with the quietest radish mouths, the ones with the unjustified wings. Nobody's uglier, nobody flies further. They talk to each other through fine blue clouds, through elegant casts of stars. She of the birds looked like friendly clothes of a moonbeam. He of the birds looked like oak bark wrapped with iron. They talked in slow gravel voices, and looked at each other slyly, out of eye corners.