Broken assets

Rain followed me around Portugal for a month, like a loyal and rather damp dog. I tried running. I tried hiding in a church. At last I scratched it behind the clouds and sent it home to the Atlantic. On some gray days it still comes by to visit.

Apple trees in Normandy once went on a long march to find better soil. I met them on the road and showed them the way to a valley near Rouen. They took root by supper. Every fall, in thanks, they drop their finest fruit straight into my open hat.

Her Imperial Highness asked me to fetch a star for her hair. I borrowed a long ladder from a Kiev fire brigade. The star was hot, so I carried it home in a soup pot. She wore it to the ball, and the ladies all left early, sunburned.

Pepper won the war for us at Ochakov. I loaded a mortar with a single sack and fired it at the wind. Ten thousand Turks sneezed at the same time. Their tents blew down, and their horses fled in panic. Our drummers then marched in without waking the cook.

Wigs were in fashion at Versailles, and mine was the tallest. Swallows nested near the top. A small choir practiced in the curls. One evening.