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HouseCricket

(photo – courtesy of the web)

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He rode sound for the first ten miles. The wind howled for his entrapment as sand propelled off its breath against him. But he had not moved, not once.

I pondered why trees were ever symbolic for the steadfast. It seemed silly now, a root that holds one in place as if we were never to be anywhere else.

When I stopped at the gas station, the cricket embolden his legs and jumped from the stationary windshield wiper. I bid him a silent farewell as he maneuvered through the parking lot into a field of corn.

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© Tammy Mezera 2015

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