The Linnet's Wings Blackbird Dock - Page 97

Shadowy, intermittent presences we usually know are microscope-beset, become most immediate, deliberate. For glorious moments, splendid people rush back into our lives with their baggage, the Silver Streak unloaded, Boston's old South Station alive, bursting soldered seams. At times I've been lucky, white phosphorescently lucky; when I apprehend all, quadrangle of Camp Drake in Japan in February of 1951, the touch and temperature of the breeze on the back of my neck; I know a rifle's weight on a web strap on my shoulder, awed knowledge of a ponderous steel helmet, tight lace on a boot, watch band on one wrist. Behind me, John Salazer is a comrade with two brothers not yet home from World War II, who the captain calls and says, "You go home tomorrow. Be off the hill before dark." "No, sir, I'll spend the night with Jack down in the listening post." At darkness a Chinese infiltrator hurls a grenade into their bunker. The count begins again, eternal count, odds maker at work, clash of destinies. On the ship heading home, on a troop train rushing across America, in all rooms of sleep sin ”Ρ‘•Έ°)…Ι”ΝΑ…•Μ…Ι½ΥΉ΅”Έ5•΅½Ι䰁™Ι…₯±”°‰•½΅•ΜΡ•Ή…₯½ΥΜ°)‰ΥЁ‘½Ή½Ί΅”…́„Ω½₯”°…Ή΅δέ₯±°ΡΌΝΑΙ•…Ρ‘•₯ȁѕΉ…₯ΡδΈ)5䁉½½¬Ν…εΜ°€½ΘΡ‘½Ν”έ‘ΌΑ…ΝΝ•Ρ‘ɽ՝ M…՝ΥΜ°…±°Ρ½έΉΜ°)½΅Ι…‘•Μ‰Ι…Ω•±δέ…±­•…݅䁙ɽ΄‘½΅”ΡΌ™…±°•±Ν•έ‘•Ι”°)…ΉΡ‘”™Ι…₯±•ΝЁ½Ή”½˜…±°°™Ι₯‘Ρ•Ή•°±…ΝΝ䡕啐°­Ή½έ₯Ήœ)‘”₯́‘…Α±•ΝΜ°½Ή”™½½Π½ΉΡΌ΅…δΝ½₯°½ΘM½ΥΡ A…₯™₯Œ‰•… )…Ή½₯Ήœ‘½έΈ°‰ΥЁΉ½ΠΡΌ‰”™½Ι½ΡΡ•Έ°Ή½Π•Ω•Θ‘•Ι”Έˆ)$‘…Ρ‘•₯ȁ…ΡΡ•ΉΡ₯½ΈΈ]”Ν‘…Ι•θQ‘”Ν‘•±±Μέ•Ι”…ΉΉ½Ή…‘₯Ήœ)…́½Ή”‘₯•₯Έ΅δ…Ι΅Μ°‰±½½Ν•ΡΡ₯ΉœΝΥΈ‘½έΈΈ%Έ‘…Ι­Ή•Ν́Ή½ά)$…ΉΉ½Π™₯Ή‘₯́™…”……₯ΈΈ$Ν•…ɍ ™½Θ₯Π°ΝΡΥ΅‰±”°±½Ν”΅δέ…δΈ)Q‘₯́5…δΜΙ₯ ……₯Έ°•αΑ±½‘₯ΉœΈM₯αΡδ΅™₯Ω”5…䁡½ΉΡ‘́‰ΥΙΝΠ)Ρ‘”…₯ΘΈ$₯Ή‘…±”…Ή•ά°±•…ٕ́‰½΅ˆ΅”°Ν…ΐ₯́ΝΡ₯±°°΅ΥΡΡ•Ι₯Ήœ)½˜Ρ‘”…ΙΡ ₯́΅ΥΡ”Έ$Ι•΅•΅‰•Θ…±°Ρ‘”ΝΑΙ₯Ήœ5…εΜ쁽Ή”Ρ•…ΙΜ)…‰½ΥЁ΅”Ή½ά°‰ΥЁ‘₯́™…”₯́±½ΝΠΈ!½ά…Έ$™₯Ή‘₯́™…”……₯Έό(δά