It's baking hot here. The grasses are straw and the sky, washed out blue.
We found a runaway kite, its string wrapped around the electrickery wires and its body in among the weeds. I cut it free and was carrying off the prize (nice German kite), when the flyster's mother emerged from a nearby crib and claimed it from me. "He's merely five years old", she intoned," and we couldn't cut it down last night as it was still flying from the wire."
A likely story.
Kiteless, I skulked off.
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