Country 1912
In the glade they rest as one. Curled like commas, just
beyond the sound of the bugle and thundering hooves. Three of them, fur
red-bronzed and gleaming; all ribs and muscle. Young, male; each pushing at the
edges of their prime.
One by one they have retreated to the den, as the cleaning
feels too big without her. The rustle of leaves suddenly too loud, the fallen
log towering and uncomfortably dark.
So they push in deeper, coil limbs and tails tighter. Drifting
together towards the known comfort of sleep.
Burnished brothers jolted back by the ring of a single shot.
Town 1916
It’s dark as she leaves the cab, and steps into a city night
that’s falling fast. Dropping edges of air, cold and sharp.
She hurries over the pavement sleek with gas light and late
afternoon rain. And hunches her shoulders, letting her chin sink low into the
comforting folds of her fox-fur wrap. It’s warmth is a distraction; is enough
to stop her eyes wandering up to her son’s window. Closed tight for months,
it’s glass mirror-dark.
Taking care on the steps, she enters the black white marble
hallway, where to her surprise there is no to greet her. No servants, but
unexplained silence.
The scent of lilies.
And a telegram, face upwards on the silver post tray.
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