Gypsy caravans crossing shimmering river shot through with sun-diamonds. Giselle sings to the rhythm of wagon wheels turning; clop of  horses’ hooves in plume of road dust. Feeling chill, she shivers, wrapping shawl closer.

“Someone has stepped on my grave,” she murmurs. Even for a gypsy, Giselle is fey; all doubt any man be foolish enough to take her to a marriage bed. Her sheets forever remaining unstained by man’s seed and blood of birthing.

Giselle kens a prophet in stars; clear full moon casts reassuring shadows. Knows in her heart he is waiting. Just over hill, next town market or Saint Day fair. Through split vent in her father’s back curtain, she will see him and be sure. So she sings to rhythm of wheels taking her closer to her husband-yet-to-be.

sunday whirl words 307: caravans shimmering rhythm shot plume chill vent pick stars prophet sheets foolish

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