The sound of foot steps clopping on concrete, reverberating and echoing in the still night air.
The glow of the moon drains and leaches out the colors of your surroundings, melting and blending into varying shades of grey.
Kaleidoscopically swirling and dripping into a Salvador Dali painting. A soft, subtle, barely conceivable, breeze whips across the landscape of fields and trees.
Tickling the flesh, and charging your nerves, even as it swirls and twirls the leaves overhead.
The trees begin to murmur wind-song in response, a dusty, dry, ageless, language.
Wind-song grows slowly and subtly louder, approaching a near crescendo.
Even as somewhere echoing off in the distance an animal calls to the moon, singing a tune of desperate and timeless sorrow.
Far off in the night, a cigarette is lit. It's angry reddish glow, bobbing, weaving, and flaring in the night.
Looking all-the-while like a wisp dancing away to wind-song.
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Rambling
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Mister George Kapland
Community Member |
