An infant amongst autumn, Skunk snaps at
the falling leaves with both hands’ mittened fingers.
Mother: If you can catch one you get to
make a wish
and he does, and
Mother: Make a wish little Skunk, make a
wish!
and
now an adult, invalid and static, one hand tight to the stick, one floating in
the air between the leaves as they drop, and each one close enough to be caught
is caught and crumpled, and every wish he earns he makes the same.
