The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 7 | Page 7

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This storyteller is a hunter-gatherer. He lets strangers

grow their own stories nine months out of the year.

In the summer, he criss-crosses the country

to harvest them. The last time I saw him,

I drove the school bus he purchased across a long lawn,

felt like the largest animal on a savannah

until the savannah dried into asphalt.

In my dream life, I understand:

Transience is natural. I do not question

the mouse that becomes the buffalo; I accept

when morning dissolves characters into memories

too small to hold through the end of their day.