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Crusade

The croissants had been baked by a soft-spoken French woman that morning At the patisserie we found on the way to the island I thought back to the way our breath trailed us in the cold morning air As my sister and I ran back to the car with our breakfast The pastry was falling apart in my hand as I carefully ate it in the back seat The road was silent and the smell of the sea filled the wind Fields of cow pastures and morning dew surrounded our winding path Trees lined the coast and were tall and thin Their roots blanketed with cornflowers They reminded me of the ones I’ve seen in paintings Of distant Italian villa at art galleries None of the shops we passed were open yet Their faces dark as the sun rose from behind them Suddenly I could make out the striking silhouette of our destination in the distance The shape of the island topped with its monastery ha slowly emerged Through the tall Thin tree line Along the horizon

Crusade

The croissants had been baked by a soft-spoken French woman that morning At the patisserie we found on the way to the island I thought...