Out the front door, she sees a billowing flash from the edge of her peripheal vision. Is it white? A rippling sailing. Startling. Gust. A seagull, it swoops, arcs, and lassoes swiftly forward and above, squawking. Squawking to her. Persistent. Loops back up, down, and then around her head, circumscribing a vanilla-ish neon halo. She walks faster. Coincidence nudged aside in favor of some sort of omen, meaning, or sacrament. She hits the car fob. From nowhere, a raven intercepts the seagull's flight, just above the car. Harlequin contrasts of black and white. Checkerboard. The raven has a few words of its own to shout. A flock arrives, as if on call. She gets in the car. It doesn't start. She tries again. It turns over. She can't get out of there fast enough.
Thursday, August 20, 2020
The Seagull-Raven Affair
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