One of the éoles reared on its back wheel at their approach, spreading its ungraceful wings and spinning its propeller: a dominant male, getting their scent. The flock stopped grazing for a second, and the low hum of their engines quickened as they readied for the signal to take off.
This is my final Lexias column, the last in a series that began some fifty columns ago with my first, "Walls," on February 7, 2005.
Next year, / We'd be all over time, / And kick their trans-temporal heinies / Back to the middle of next week.
