below mon be low 040127 ... arachnodactyl bellows blow the boiler is aglow 131120 ... raze underneath_the_burning_bush, there's_a_woman_singing. 131121 ... ovenbird On Easter Sunday the children gather on the beach below the beach house. The house stands proudly at the top of a steep hill which sweeps down to a sliver of sand. The house is white and pristine, the siding freshly painted, the windows clear as glacier water, reflecting the bluebird sky. An inviting porch wraps around the front of the house but no one is standing there. There is no movement behind the windows. The house is waiting. And the beach below is wild and windy, the sand studded with broken shells and stones just waiting to catch your foot and twist your ankle. And the water is churning and brown, full of tangling seaweed and silty foam. And now it’s Easter_Sunday and the children have come from all over the island. They’re wearing thin bathing suits despite the early spring chill and into the water they go while their parents look on from a sheltered distance, wrapped in tweed jackets with hand knit hats perched on their early morning bedheads. The children lie on their fronts in the water, their bodies submerged in the crashing waves, with just their heads poking above the surface, like alligators telescoping their eyes, waiting for prey. The children are hungry, the kind of hunger that grows out of anticipation rather than empty stomachs, the kind that makes children, and people who once were children, gouge each other’s eyes to get what they think they’re owed. The beach is strewn with logs that have escaped from barges taking the felled bodies of trees to lumber yards where they will be turned into timber. Logs six feet in diameter roll in the surf and crash into the children who are log-like themselves, round and straight and turning over and over in the surf. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the logs and the children, except that the children have mouths that are open and waiting, because it’s Easter Sunday and it is tradition on Easter Sunday to gather on the beach below the beach house and wait. And soon enough the front door of the house opens, way up on the hill, and a woman in a blue dress with a frilly white apron tied around her waist walks gracefully onto the porch holding a large bag of candy and she smiles while she tosses it down the slope one piece at a time. Candy rolls down the hill towards the beach: Cadbury Crème Eggs and jelly beans and those marshmallow Peeps that will rot your teeth just by looking at them and Hershey Kisses and peanut butter cups…they tumble down the hill, their wrappers catching the rising sun. And the children rise up from the water, crazed in the grip of a feeding frenzy, and they snap at the candy with their teeth and snatch it with their frozen fingers all while being pummelled by the waves and the logs and the abrading sand, and their mouths fill with blood and chocolate. And this is what happens on Easter Sunday on a small island where a crescent of beach sits below a beach_house. 260327 what's it to you? who go blather from