Elephants in the Sky Tula Singer
i. elephants in the sky Elephants were marching in the sky. They were marching sadly, severely, they were headed towards the sun. The sun was a small red coin of fire. Pia Pavese lay on the grass, regarding the herd; a flame tree bowed over her and the garden. At the zoo, the elephants were always locked behind bars, locked with a key. She didn’t have that key. The guard had it. He wore it on his belt, which jiggled. Once, she’d asked him what the elephants had done to end up like that, like delinquents. He’d only shrugged and clumped coarsely away. She’d also asked the elephants as they stood collectively like mountains in front of the sea, but none knew the answer to their terrible fate. Wind stirred: a stand-in ghost. It came from the ocean, just like Pia Pavese. The grass was parched and it quivered under her legs. The flame tree quivered too, and a premature bud drifted down to her nose, completely composed. She flicked it away—it smelled of nothing, it smelled of air. Pia Pavese bit into another watermelon, spit a seed into the grass. She had learned never to swallow the black seeds, or else a melon tree would grow in her belly. There were eight elephants. Vittoria Tadeo was on her way to buy milk at the distillery. “Is that you, Pia Pavese? Why are you in the garden? Didn’t you know that scorpions are drawn to still, dark corners?” “I am counting the elephants in the sky.” “Elephants?”
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