“The rock dove stopped flapping his wings, dived into gravity through the jagged hole in the skylight and into the damp, brittle air of the tier block.”
The rock dove soared over the grey wall, caught a draft of warm air that thrust him higher over the courtyard to the centre block building and beyond that the north star. With the beacon secure in sight, he dipped his left wing and allowed the up-draft to spin him in a wide circle, spiralling upward over the dome of the rotunda, over the concrete exercise yard covered with sparkling broken glass.
Richard Stanford, When I’m not writing short stories and essays or producing documentary films in Montréal, I can be found mucking about in my gardens trying to create the perfect eggplant.
Ovi eBook Publishing 2021
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