Thursday, January 11, 2007
ululate
You could hear moans coming down the soft dirt path. Not many people passed through these back woods of rusting car parts, torn tree limbs and stale air. But the air, however foul, ran with her cries. Three-years-old and already a slave to typhoid. He could all but say, "mama" when he fell asleep.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment