A dark shadow flew along the ground, on the stone patio, over the chairs and bodies of every one listening to the riddle game. A sudden flapping of wings drew everyone's eyes upwards, to see, with no little relief, Wyrd swooping out of the trees, low to the ground, and then around everyone. He seemed to want to land near Birdland, but at the last minute swerved away and contented himself with perching on the railing, as if he, too, had come to listen to the game play out.
A providential spectator? mused Gandalf.
[ August 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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