An ochre haze filters up from the tree-lined horizon. The sky is large here; the earth bends on the horizon and strains to accommodate it. The sparse sounds of animals, wild and tame, flow out from nearby woods. Titters, chirps, and tap-taps issue from the trees; a feral growl and a few barks come from the leafy floor. The scorched grass surrounding the trees takes on the morning shade, and remains silent. Nearby, on the slightest incline by the tire-marked dirt road, a white-washed house with warped wood and chipped paint stands still and solitary as a sentinel.

Continued...

§121 · August 11, 2011 · Something I Wrote · (No comments) ·