well

armadillos are the raccoons of the south they hold no enchantment

and everything is tired for her, the belle

beaten in that mexicali sunshine 

off in the distance Llewelyn sits beneath the moving canvas

those clouds are her only hope and only as consistent as  New Hampshire weather

so for now she'll let down her hair and grip the fan

who knows when she'll pin it back up in that tight little bun and take his hand