In the muttering gooseflesh dawn, he senses, once more, the gradual strengthening of light as it defines the lineaments of evil’s rootless hinterland.
In his bones . . . in his bones . . .
How far, how like a dream, those avenues of cherry trees in the municipal park in bloom, the hum of bees haphazarding, the statuary weathering in stern beneficence, and then the tramways grooved along the veins of an enlightened city, twilight with the gas lamps coming on, the shop displays, the chocolatiers . . .
He thought of himself as Viennese, as Viennese.
A mockery of crows.
(O how his mother played the piano while his father played the violin!)
They will come for him soon.
II
A sun-warmed old man’s veinous hand, gold ring on the little finger. (Small lizards bask and dart.) A sheet of yellow paper thinly lined with blue, a Waterman calligraphic pen . . .
tiny green words in a young hand forming.
Roger Craikwas born in Leicester, UK, and has worked in universities in England, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania, as well as at Kent State University, Ohio, at which he is Professor Emeritus. He enjoys watching the birds every day.