On time, delayed, diverted, it’s happening: out of Atlanta, your two sisters, Joan a new widow; Diana with new knee; just now being skewed to Daytona Beach, as we sit in Savannah’s airport space, in the general store, studying a mystery novel’s pages. Is there ever a place to go the arrivals board won’t flip? Start here. Get to there. Good weather, a gentle wind, and no ice forming in milky clouds, nor sleet on the wings. Then a sudden shear, a bad CT scan, something that shouldn’t be there, our names on the big board not yet missing, not yet way too far south of here.
John Allman | For Lucretius Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)