Ablution

New York is where the others went, where the others moored their faith. They took flight in the late morning cold, icy sunlight white on the dusty tarmac, and the beating of their wings buffeted me, and spun me side to side. As they took to the air, two cocked their eyes to me and said there was still time to join them. Everything would be better in New York. The holy ablution in its fountains and harbor puddles would slake our thirst, the breadcrumbs of Central Park would feed us. There was time and there was time. But it was a very far distance. I would not leave.

Their bodies traveled in the slipstream, the invisible tunnel of midwestern bred gusts turning the clouds into scraps of vapor on the noon sky.

And they were gone.

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