The Magician
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby cupboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
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