(And he's back, folks! Our very own clandestine agent/correspondent the Short-Handed Mole has returned from his travels with some truly bizarre/confusing gibberish. Enjoy! - M. Peacock)
Owls fly from Edessa to Odessa. Wheeling over the plains of Anatolia, following the blue thread of the Bosphorus out to the Black Sea, and landing in the Russian port city on a statue of its namesake Odysseus. Nearby is a bakery. Eating there is a rare delight, or so claim the people who stop there for brioches each morning on their way to work.
Raki is a smooth but strong drink. Often, you’ll find it mixed with chilled water. Freezes the palate then cleanses it. Right after, seafood and mezze. Ephesians would approve.
Dark monasteries. Burnt offerings. Urfa is what they call Edessa now. Loyal to their favorite patriarch, the enchanted fish frighten the fishermen. Lions once drank from the pool. Windstorms haven’t swept them away, because they live under water (as fish are wont to do).
Along the strait, the fishermen drag their nets toward the oyster stalls. Never do they suspect the submarines lurking beneath them.
Thunder over the desert. Sandstorms over.
Tigers once lived in the green hills beyond Jakarta. Hunted, poisoned, and deprived of their favorite meal (the rusa deer), they vanished. Red paws, “No sabe que en el alba han destrozado un hombre.”
“Alba,” the Provencal troubadours called the dawn. So did/do most who speak Romance languages. Haberdashers, tailors, and cobblers as well as sighing, doe-eyed lute-strummers.
Early in the morning, if you rise at the right time, and walk to the top of the mountain, you can still see them. Ranging over the hillsides, slinking into the meadows, drinking from the rivers. So they say.