 On
the thirteenth day of the seventeen year cycle of the deafening cicadas,
Hope freaked out. Buggered by bugs--in the fireplace flu, the sugar
bowl, between the sheets, in the folds of her rivulet curls. On the
thirteenth day, which to Hope seemed like thirteen years, she makes
a run for it, a sprint to the car parked in the drive and a means
to somewhere else, anywhere else, childfren or no children. Husband
or no husband. Freedom from the devil cidadas, the constant cacophany
of sex-starved prehistorics freed from a seventeen year, sub-grade
hibernation that has her running, dashing for the gate, the new gate,
the child-proof gate, the car just feet away, just beyond the locked
gate, waiting, waiting to take her from Park Ridge, from the devil
cicadas. But the gate. The damned gate.
|
With it's muscular detail,
#70 is a good accompaniment to the solid mass of flanking masonry
walls. 
