Darkening Sunday evening, birds ruffle down, footling through twigs, featherbedding leaves. Charmed as children, we follow the river and fall across a fairytale, where a house in a clearing is lit bright as any lantern, full to the gunnels with good witches, princes, sleepless beauties bearing magic potions; and God’s elderly helpers, fighting off time with clipboard shields and pencil swords. Reading between the lines of the tired and scared they whisper soothing silvered words of hope and happy endings. Harry Gallagher
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