To Own the Wind

They own you, the masters of whispers, always listening. How can you hide from the wind?

I watched my copper mailbox dangle from the door of my bar through the blurs of my windshield wipers. The rubber gripped the glass, not a forgotten drop or streak. They were new. The car was new. The mailbox was rusted and tarnished.        It was Sunday, I’d just gotten out of one of those fancy Catholic Cathedrals I’d found in inner-city Moscow,  and as I trudged through the rain, I...Read On