Flannel robe. Bare feet. Snarled hair. Nowhere to go. Shel carries her English songbird mug out to the garden. In her other hand, sweet breads to dunk: sticky, buttered whorls patterned like fossil mollusks. She nibbles into one and its flakes scatter across her lap. "My heart is a nest of straw. . ." Shel sips her coffee. "A mourning dove roost--coooh-croooh." A fiery skipper lands on a spearmint leaf by her knee, catching her eye. "Stay light for flight," he winks, then he skippers off before Shel can ask him how.
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"Classic"
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