4/24/12
24/30
It was a red night when he came down from the tree.
No one knew how long he had been up there, we'd just
catch glimpses on balmy evenings while fireflies drowned
their lights against the pale yellow glow emanating from
cracked plastic covering on the porchlight. A bristle-twitched
tail, a tufted ear, nothing more. Interest waned, people went
on about their business: filling bottles with sand, chewing
leather, brushing the down from their shoulders. His
entrance was uneventful, a chattering lost amongst the
howling from the changeling in the bedroom. Ma saw him
first, scooped him up in one hand and didn't let go for the
entire night. She's still there now, cooing and feeding him hazelnuts.
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