The Linnet's Wings :Take All My Loves, My Love - Page 123

The Linnet´s Wings The Space Between By Ron. Lavalette She sets out for the coast, stops at the notch to admire the mountains, makes note that these are truly mountains, not the soft green rounded foothills she calls home. Left behind, he comes home from work to an empty house and thinks about her traveling through the mountains toward the sea she loves, driving along with all the windows fully open, waiting for that first whiff of salt air. Two or three times before the sun goes down, he steps out onto the deck to count and recount the giant hay bales in the field below the house. Miles and miles and hours away, under a just-past-full moon, the road ceases to unfold before her. She sits, gazing out at water, satisfied, having melted her mountains in the sea. Around midnight, before bed, he goes out to stand on the deck and count the bales one last time, the way a shepherd counts his sheep. He stares out at the horizon, thinking about how ridgelines remind him of waves. 123