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--- S U S A N   H .  M A U R E R

The flight over the couple in cosmetics told me there is a salmon stream in Reykjavik running through town. They helped me get Black Death to drink and told me how to drink it. When the lights went out she put her foot upon his lap. I could not escape his leg. It's always been my imagination.

The tour bus swings and there it is, the salmon river, right through town in glinting light, fast moving. The tour guide is one of those intelligent Sunday school teacher who is someone else. The weather's labile, flits from snow to sun to hail tapping on the bus door. A huge rainbow trails the bus like a friendly puppy. Black sand.

"We don't have weather, we have samples," she observes. All the tour guides say that.

The time change has me flummoxed. I'm exhausted. I'm tired and head for home. The Esja with its view of the Atlantic, sapphire. Head swivels, doors open, pivot, see the sadness of blue water.

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