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“Father,” I said that day, “are we late enough to kill astronomers?”
All this while, I have been a weaver without wool, a ship without the sea. Yet now look where I sail.
most of what passed as cleverness was only archness and spite.
saw the surprise on her face. Then it was gone, like a wave washing clean over sand.
His face was handsome and his hopes crackled loud as a fire.
The air tasted of lightning.
The pool showed the moon’s half-face, the pinpoints of stars, and all around, bending near, the wavering trees.
Overhead the constellations dip and wheel.
