Shadows bend, contort against the jagged and mottled canvas painted by the dying young spring sun. Shifting, changing with every stroke or violent shake of the Old Master’s brush. Grays deepen, dividing the browns. A new shade is reborn, the light’s momentary plaything.
I turn away, close my eyes, and exhale a deep sigh that silences all life, save the wind. No, not the wind, whose whispers echo each day’s footfalls and haunt me in the small hours. The unsleeping intruder roams and chases without end.
The journey is long and I am tired.
November 25, 1948 – December 5, 2016
If I could tell stories we could share…
Credits: Creative Commons License (CC0) images via Pixabay with modifications by the author.