Like a feather floating upon the air, she drifts from man to man, a veritable feast of indecision.
Updrafts and downdrafts, she drifts and drifts, and floats across a sea of babblers. Sometimes when
the wind stills, and she is aloft on the oak tree or the burning bush, she thinks she might stay
forever, but the noreasters bring the scent of the sea, and she is drawn away by the promise of
air heavy with salt. Sometimes she swim upstream, against the current, and over the rocks, searching
for clean air, and an isatiable greeness. But that, too, palls, and she flits off again for her next