A child's cry washes in with the swell of wind through the window. It's not a demanding cry, not one asking to be fed or changed, but a whiny, sickly mew. The air smells of magnolias and freshly cut grass, but I can't relax and enjoy it—that fretful crying continues.
First Lines Contest 2017: Trusting Bamboo Bridges
The First Lines Contest 2017 is closed. Please submit your vote in the current year.