Soup

His headaches come on with changes in the weather, rain on the metal roof, black clouds, a pressure. Hood up, glasses off, focused on potato leek soup at close range. Beautiful yellow bubbles, sheen, oil slick, daisies blooming in a green field of absence. Voices ebbing, barely there. He is flying low over the ocean, low on fuel, looking for an island, one chance to set down and swim for it.
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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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