Émigré

There were fireworks on the day she was born.

Not for her – for some old dead guy who liked making explosions.

But wherever she lived, and she lived a lot of places, that night the sky was lit up in red and green and gold and blue.

It suited her. She played with fire.

Magpie appreciated talents like that.

The trickster bird perched on the park bench and stared at the sparkling beads decorating her throat, the rings on her fingers, the studs on her hat.

“Hm,” he said. “You and me need to get to know each other better.”

—–

Happy birthday, K.