In glorious
Technicolor, breathtaking Cinemascope, magnificent
dum te dum te
dum te dum stereophonic surround sound, Michael
lying on corrugated
roof watching for Germans or Indians
crawling on
their bellies through the tall grass of Glynn’s garden.
Eyes,
pillbox slits. Sharp blades of grass quivering in June breeze;
or infiltrating
dogs, enemies. Sounds, rustlings in the heat haze,
above the
undergrowth, flicker in his eyes; sweeps the sweat
from his
forehead beneath a blazing noon sun; endlessly patience,
tripwire-finger on trigger. It was the time of get that woman back
into the
wagon, but Michael skipped last night’s soppy love scene
and is now
the last one, the only one, still alive to defend O’Dea’s.
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