A round about
The rumbling passage of dark grey clouds overhead is watched by a lone observer. He marks the violet edges brought on by the setting sun. He notes the cobalt blue boiling beneath, and accepting the futility in trying to pass on an appreciation for such a vaporous moment contents himself with being the witness.
Sitting atop a pine stool he rests his weight upon the sheds doorway. Looking out at the whirling dance within the steams of light still emanating from setting sun. The golden dust sweeps across the field in a cloud. Below the dried white and brown grass call out in joyful chorus for the coming storm and the promised rain.
Inside the shed a man paces back and forth a scowl etched upon his face. The bitter acidic aroma of vinegar aged wine and the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke has settled into every fiber of his clothes. The wind howls outside and the rusted tin walls of the shed rattle against their loosened nails in a repetitive chalkboard screech, as though enraged harpies roost on over head.
A steady stream of curses spills from his mouth matching the rust flavored water which fills bucket after rusted bucket. The labor is monotonous and awkward. The water steams from the holes on the bottom, calling for haste. The high lip of the wash basin catching the edges of the bucket, the undistributed weight forcing a slouched gait, the sloshing of water into boots, the continuous banging of bucket on knee. All equal to a bucket half full of water and half of curses being pored into the leaky wooden barrel. Where a burlap sack writhes as something inside is continuously being soaked in an attempted drowning.
Within the cold wet endless darkness a bobcat struggles against the abrasive edges of its prison. It bites at the cold and promises that the damned waterfall will be set ablaze. It's growl rumbles low in its throat like approaching thunder and it takes solace that the screeching birds above fear the storm.
The witness's name is Happiness.
The toiler, Annoyance.
The bobcat, The Storm of Madness.
Sitting atop a pine stool he rests his weight upon the sheds doorway. Looking out at the whirling dance within the steams of light still emanating from setting sun. The golden dust sweeps across the field in a cloud. Below the dried white and brown grass call out in joyful chorus for the coming storm and the promised rain.
Inside the shed a man paces back and forth a scowl etched upon his face. The bitter acidic aroma of vinegar aged wine and the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke has settled into every fiber of his clothes. The wind howls outside and the rusted tin walls of the shed rattle against their loosened nails in a repetitive chalkboard screech, as though enraged harpies roost on over head.
A steady stream of curses spills from his mouth matching the rust flavored water which fills bucket after rusted bucket. The labor is monotonous and awkward. The water steams from the holes on the bottom, calling for haste. The high lip of the wash basin catching the edges of the bucket, the undistributed weight forcing a slouched gait, the sloshing of water into boots, the continuous banging of bucket on knee. All equal to a bucket half full of water and half of curses being pored into the leaky wooden barrel. Where a burlap sack writhes as something inside is continuously being soaked in an attempted drowning.
Within the cold wet endless darkness a bobcat struggles against the abrasive edges of its prison. It bites at the cold and promises that the damned waterfall will be set ablaze. It's growl rumbles low in its throat like approaching thunder and it takes solace that the screeching birds above fear the storm.
The witness's name is Happiness.
The toiler, Annoyance.
The bobcat, The Storm of Madness.