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Veronique de Turenne


A friend and I were at breakfast at the Malibu Kitchen, Sunday papers, warm muffins, warm sunshine. Quiet at 8 a.m. (the dogs woke up early) when suddenly, a loud, angry squawk. Then another and another and, after a suspenseful silence, what can only be described as, well, clucking. Clucking?

We looked up into the tree, saw a flash of white feathers. My friend looked puzzled.

"Chickens," he asked?

"Egrets," I said. "So graceful and elegant and ..."

Then this bird appeared. And that whole graceful/elegant speech? Drowned out by my friend's laughter.

Next entry: And it's gone

More by Veronique de Turenne:
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Previous story: The fleshpots of Malibu

Next story: And it's gone

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