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Quinces, and: And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood

Quinces, and: And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood Elizabeth Biller Chapman Quinces Nearby, the water blue and on it a white pelican swims fishing Charleston Slough. Does that connect to the Bay? My friend is impatient because I haven't read today's Times naming the Nobel Prize writer: "That really is not nice." I do not apologize. I do not even care to apologize. My hair is growing back. Her hair is growing back, thicker. She's taken me to lunch ­ our salads still a streak of summer, fresh mozzarella and tomatoes and basil, plates piled with greens ­ at the shoreline. We're surviving in our different ways while the pure pelican is dipping and dipping in his deep lagoon a righting instinct, and his portly self, "immense" Sibley's bird guide said. I tell Helen, "I'm obsessed with quinces this week," seeing the world in a quince light. She smiles, "You remind me. Alex loves them and when they are soft enough, eats them raw. In Russia my mother would put them with another fruit. Blackcurrants, which will not grow here, too hot." Quinces are in the market, fragrant, knobbed like breasts. I take three and add two pears, following Jane Grigson's rule: 116 For a rosy http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

Quinces, and: And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood

Prairie Schooner , Volume 80 (3)

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 by the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X
Publisher site
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Abstract

Elizabeth Biller Chapman Quinces Nearby, the water blue and on it a white pelican swims fishing Charleston Slough. Does that connect to the Bay? My friend is impatient because I haven't read today's Times naming the Nobel Prize writer: "That really is not nice." I do not apologize. I do not even care to apologize. My hair is growing back. Her hair is growing back, thicker. She's taken me to lunch ­ our salads still a streak of summer, fresh mozzarella and tomatoes and basil, plates piled with greens ­ at the shoreline. We're surviving in our different ways while the pure pelican is dipping and dipping in his deep lagoon a righting instinct, and his portly self, "immense" Sibley's bird guide said. I tell Helen, "I'm obsessed with quinces this week," seeing the world in a quince light. She smiles, "You remind me. Alex loves them and when they are soft enough, eats them raw. In Russia my mother would put them with another fruit. Blackcurrants, which will not grow here, too hot." Quinces are in the market, fragrant, knobbed like breasts. I take three and add two pears, following Jane Grigson's rule: 116 For a rosy

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

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