A dirt road skirts the south bank of a farm pond where white water lilies drop their petals, and an evening chill whispers secrets of the approaching fall. Seldom traveled, its destination of interest to none save a few old men, the narrowing byway passes near yet seems to ignore a lonely farmhouse as it steals westward where, moments before achieving a sublime oneness with infinity, it is consumed, burned out by a fiery sunset. This inevitable vanishing is witnessed solely and dispassionately by a wake of buzzards, their discordant collective unwinding in silence, perhaps fostering unlikely visions of a bonne bouche, having duteously picked clean the putrefying remains of a beautiful day.
# posted by pansypoo @ 11:05 PM
