Aug 172011
 

On our quiet way back to the parkinglot, at a verdant V between conflicting trails, we saw a goofy quail nodding its odd way among the pea-green grasses. The dunking bob-white call at once put me in mind of Hillary back in our college days of twenty years ago, stretched out on her beaten-flat floor mattress in her cheap off-campus squat, chirruping a quaint quailese to her pet quail, rescued from who-knows-where who-knows-how. Outfitted in her own outrageous punk get-up, lovely in her disarray as few even perfect sculptures manage, Hillary steadfastly refused every advantage beauty such as hers offers youth so that she might be the creatrix of her own soul.

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