Sublime

stippled

These folk are not like her and not like her mother; some are differently shaped, their voices rough and deep as a lowing cow. She stalks two as they walk beyond their thorn hedge to a stand of alders by the stream near their house. They are noisy; their untidy feet snap twigs and kick stones without heed for what might hear. They talk but the thin

barbican,

sarabande

in ways

synecdoche

“A siren?” I was bewildered, and in no condition to think. “Do you mean Seawrack?”