Squeaking, the kitchen door swings, unwillingly, in its rusty bends, a nodding, a blinking of astonishment. Where did that girl go in such a sturdy stepping out? She was just sitting there, as the early sun beams poured the yellow of a dusty swirl into the fishbowl. That fishbowl! An empty globe, a void, where she choreographed reddish tailed dreams that wouldn't turn to gold. There, there she goes, in the winding road, her shaggy curls hasting in the summer blue; in her arms, with her scarf looped around it, the glassy fishbowl pulses, waving its bright red scratched tail.