LCT JOURNAL 2020
Sounded Blue Padraic Berting I wish December air spoke words of confidence, but all it does is cut my face with the precision of a novice Boy Scout wood carver. We walk through cold sand awash in the blue light of the fading sun on the water. The only words on the beach come from the boys sledding down the hill (I wish I remembered how to talk like them). Grey pigeons beat against the crying air, but fall into arranged place on the sinking wooden pier. I open my mouth to let the sound loose, but my jaw locks up, and the wind does the talking. What it said I don’t know, but we skip rocks like children in the hum.
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