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March came fumbling in like the Wizard of Oz lion, winds shifting the surge of their northern force, padding around the horizon, creeping further and further west as the still invisible sun climbed near the zenith each day, warmed the gorge-crawling clouds, and loosed the first of the spring rain.1 “Thank you for the cake,” I said. “Them foreigners,” she said, staring up into the obscurity where the bell tinkled. “Take my advice and stay clear of them, young man.” “Yessum,” I said. “Come on, sister.” We went out.2 I determined to remain dead. It would afford me greater freedom of action.3
1 Richard Farina, Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me 2 Wm. Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury 3 Sax Rohmer, The Golden Scorpion |