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Wilton Elba By Robert L. Welby A cool clear Friday evening three years into the latest banishment darkness finds me on the porch, waiting. I sit in the wicker rocking chair beneath the glow of the strange blue light bulb. A pair of dueling crickets serve and return their chirping whirrs diagonally across the front lawn. The fresh cut grass smells so green and vital. Above it, flying in secret orbits, fireflies constantly relocate their winking signals. Now and again, I have to evade the swoops of blundering moths. The blue light seems to confuse them. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007