For some reason, known only to the Lepidopterans themselves, certain species of butterfly will congregate in the forest at the end of the summer and seemingly expire in unison, mounding into a conglomerate pile of butterfly wings.
“Go-or-or do,” sung cinnamon-skinned little Graciela in front of his stainless steel sausage cart.
Dark haired Sarah was running down an elegant Hollywood back street near a major movie studio in a subdued and reserved corner of the movie making community–no ugly movie production wardrobe trailers ever profaned this hidden street.
Barefoot Capt. Shelton kept looking at the changing horizon out here on the middle grounds—trying to see around that curve of the earth.
For Leticia’s tall blond young man, Timothy, a farm implement salesman, it had become a brightly glowing world today, even in the middle of what might have seemed a cold, dreary Illinois winter to others.
