Versione ebook di Readme.it powered by Softwarehouse.it LANDSince I'm Island-born home's as preciseas if a mumbly old carpentershoulder-straps crossed wronglaid it outrefigured to the last three-eighths of shingle.Nowhere that plough-cut wormsheal themselves in red loam;spruces squatskirts in sand;or the stones of a river rattle its darktunnel under the elmsis there a spot not measured by hands;no direction I couldn't walkto the wave-lined edge of home.In the fanged jaws of the Gulfa red tongue.Indians say a musical Godtook up His brush and painted it;named itin His own languageThe Island.
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