Rumble, rumble clank shriek clang clang. The streetcar passed below. Within its metallic noises the steady clop of the horses. Their harness buckles flashed twisted tori briefly on the crane's back. It was said crane's calls came from a voice box as long as the neck grown inextricably through the needing ages to a strong breastbone. The vibrations of many crucial bones and many centuries produced the mighty, longing, eery calls of the crane.
        Someone was calling.
        Boots raced along the pavement. Late for the car. Late for a job. Wooden desk in a slightly dusty office on a hot day when the window shades smelled of glue and cracked. Every streak on the windows showed like thick cobweb and 1longed for an excuse to enter the pharmacy with the fountain, to slip onto a stool with all the time in the world
and order and watch the white-shirted attendant's arms illustrate the concoction with blue garters, a marvelous conjoining of fizz and cold and cream and chocolate which arrived before 1's face in a thick fluted glass doubled in the mirror, blessed by a doily and a silver spoon.
        The streetcar was lost in the sound of the church bell. It's spire rose up until it dissolved in sparkle.
        All the sky sparkled on hot mornings. It might have been the nearness of the sea.
        Cleo remembered the mission church with its school under a thatched roof and a boat which came once a month and rippled oryx horns and coffee trees.