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by M. C. A. Hogarth

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 M.C.A. Hogarth

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Ojune has a way of playing for us and a way of playing for himself. When engaged in the latter, the conch shell whistle is as hushed as a breeze rippling the ocean, or a mournful wind through reeds. Many seekers can't even distinguish it from the sounds of nature and pass him by -- his intent.

But I can hear the difference.

A few minutes of following a thin line of scraggly shrub to the shore and I found him, seated on a jagged rock, playing to the unsettled waters, the gray sky. The unfulfilled storm pressed on my pelit, but not enough for rain. I crawled up the rock to Ojune's side and curled myself around his body on one side of his two tails, with my long head in his lap. He finished the song and put the shell aside before running his fingers through my hair.

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