The Smell of a Saint

In Palermo, mice rain from a guileless blue sky. They plunge fatly from rooftops and window ledges, landing broken and wet and dead on the cobbles. The mice have rained in Palermo for days, months, perhaps years. The people of Palmero loft umbrellas against the deluge and wear large sturdy hats. They pray ceaselessly for the rain of mice to end.
But it doesn't. God, it seems, is in a mirthful, feckless mood.

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© Copyright Karen Goa
Auckland 0626, New Zealand