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Contents Page: December 31, 2010, vol 6 no 4

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Bob Lucky



The sky is clear except for one dark cloud stretching like a scorched marshmallow across the surface of the moon. The roar of the surf and the wind-rattled thatch and palm fronds are lost in conversation. I reach over and squeeze her hand. Maybe, she says.

full moon
the thud of a coconut
hitting the sand

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