Sunrise. Two distant roosters crow almost simultaneously.
The first rays of the orange light begin to criss-cross the green meadow –
angular shadows of the leaning grass appear across the smooth granite surfaces
on the brightening hillside. The songs of the evening crickets are replaced by
the many voices of fluttering birds. From tree to granite slab to bush they
fly, making a sea of jubilant music.
Wind now parts the branches of the trees, but is quickly
lulled by the radiant sunshine. The last clouds of dawn burn from the sky – all
is bright and glowing. The din of distant cattle drifts high in the air with
the sweet smell of clover. Farm machinery from beyond the tree-lined glade adds
a customary rumble to the morning symphony. Other daily events take their usual
turns: a distant auto on a country road, the buzzing of cicadas, silent flight
of butterflies, the evaporation of dew from the polished marble monuments
with plastic bouquets at their bases.
And yet, a stranger appears in the air – the sputtering of
loose gravel and a nearing engine. The birds are silent for a moment. The noise
approaches, and its dusty source grinds to a halt just outside the rusting
fence and gate. Dust settles, and birds move to higher vantage points. A
metallic click, and footsteps from the road are heard, crackling in accumulated
leaves - the creaking of the gate and slow footfalls through unmown grass.
Minutes pass in silence.
A sniff, a subdued sob, and a white handkerchief is brought
to dampened eyes.
Moments later an exit is made, and dust leaves a trail
settling along the road. The gate stands open, but soon things fall back into
their usual pattern.
By noon all has been forgotten.
6/1/1977
for Terry Mashman's writing class
In memory of Mo Moseng, 1933-2019
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