F

Frank fried fish for Finns. He'd lost a foot in France, because his boot failed to fit. He thought it fun to set flash fires in an fallow field, and once found a free fridge that still functioned.

His father, a frigid, fanatical forester, frightened him as a boy, but fostered a firm faith in the finer feelings of his fellow fire-jumpers, as Frank followed in his fearless footsteps, infrequently.

At his funeral, in far off Fredonia, on a freezing Friday, falconers flew their feathered fellows for their friend.

Fingerlings falling
floundering in fat
Floury fascination.


Faintly rusty
Colors byPilgrim Heretic.