Fancy, if on an evening from your second story looking down lighted street, you mark that distant figure crooked in an overcoat, drunken legs lagging toward you in the dark: "What a night to be out . . . "
But the drizzle gutters and still he's coming toward the heart of your cul de sac oblivious to neighbors; Angus barks into the fog.
Now only a softened form against the silken lawn the shifting winds make nothing the cry of the weathercock- then dry footsteps on the porch: a thin insistent gentlemanly knock.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved