Brooding

Paloma and Josep sit silently, side by side in a black car, each watching a world blur away through tinted glass. Her hands worry in the nest of her lap like brood mates. His spine is a ramrod. The world is desultory, patches of olive and dun and abandon. Her ring is a dew claw — functionless, prone to catching on things, to getting caught.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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4 Responses to Brooding

  1. Whimsy Mimsy says:

    You really need to write a book. Seriously. These prose bits are fantastic.

  2. Ray Sharp says:

    thank you, miss mimsy, too kind

  3. joanna says:

    i second Mimsy! 🙂

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