The sun burns a hole in the wall of maple leaves to the east, and I half expect an open wound to be left behind as it inches up from the horizon to reach full freedom at the tippity-top of the tree line.
Strange whirling dervishes of wind seem to select certain tall trees here and there, like mini tornados to tussle the leaves and rummage through branching shelves in search of something…what?
The low lying birches and tall sturdy pines watch but hold steady with barely a quiver of reaction to their neighbors’ agitation. But pride comes before the fall as always, and with the hard winds of storm, these are the ones who will bend but a bit before breaking. They have not the experience to have learned it best to be resilient to the day.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
sweeping over lonely grounds, finding crowds. resting on a despate space, with a lamp and and a chosen blade… close the eyes, now rest, you’ve tried…