By A Beka Book
Spelling and Poetry 1 instructor variation
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Extra resources for A Beka Spelling and Poetry 1 Teacher Editon
Yet as he flies he drops down like a leaf the earth tries to give back. He tumbles, caught at last in the canvas sheet, then feels again through socks the warm concrete. • 25 • Cloak Late May, skin tingled true with riot, the screen door clapping shut behind me on the final days of school. Beneath the dogwood’s white explosion, fragrance of milk floated down and floated up, each petal a portal, a pure cup and sweet pill to cure us of winter and call back the birds. ) I’m not good at reading . .
Under the sun, though, he would sometimes sleep in the plaza between Wheeler Hall and Dwinelle, his body laid out in the warmth, on the hot stones, with his head cool enough under the umbrella he opened on the ground. Awake, he’d pace the square patterns of the inlaid plaza brickwork, careful to keep on a course of straight lines and ninety-degree angles, which he otherwise improvised on the legendary grid—where to turn, when to continue on the straight path until it was time to turn. So that his work, you could say, 34 • • was to wear a suit of circles and trace a path of squares.
He tumbles, caught at last in the canvas sheet, then feels again through socks the warm concrete. • 25 • Cloak Late May, skin tingled true with riot, the screen door clapping shut behind me on the final days of school. Beneath the dogwood’s white explosion, fragrance of milk floated down and floated up, each petal a portal, a pure cup and sweet pill to cure us of winter and call back the birds. ) I’m not good at reading . . Running then not to be late, the dogwood casting one beam like a full daytime moon over shortcuts, bamboo, bulldog, and quiet creek water.