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  • Angelina Blankson

The Overcast

I see colors of blue and green. A summer haze of heat floats above the ground, forgotten daisy chains scattered across the grass. Fresh air tugs at my nostrils as the shrieks of laughter bang against my eardrums. The sun shone so brightly. Until one day, there was one less daisy chain, one less shriek of laughter. The footprints were still there, though they weren't the same. They were different. Scars left by a vixen, one who delights in her naivety. Her red coat and brown eyes glisten in the sun. Foxes don’t usually come out this early, yet there was one less chick. She was now a hen. We were all hens. The air was no longer fresh but dense and bitter. The colors of blue and green were now muddled into a blurry gray. Colors misplaced by naivety and ignorance. Words won't change a hen back into a chick, so the hens tread carefully, masking their paranoia. Avoiding the traps set by the fox, relying on each other for guidance, they mend the past and mold the future. Unnatural guilt soon arrives wrapped in a blue shiny bow. Blue. Memories of the same muddy overcast, born of colors blue and green.


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