After dinner we went to a strip joint. All the dancers came out and huffed from the sacred chalice of airplane glue. They all started hooting like great owls and flying about the club. The lights would dim and flicker and the flying woman owls would shimmer and sing. The songs sounded like devotional music at first, like chanting, but when one listened closer you’d realize they were just singing commercial jingles for a local used car dealership.
It was that same spring evening you got out of the car and ran through the fields. We had to chase you, because you seemed upset. We finally caught you under the old willow tree, crying. The owls cooing and whispering all about you.
