The sun refused and the forest remained, ebon, inside its wintered black, the woodland song lost to a grey that came every morning. What lingered were only ghosts and obscenities killing in the dark. Creek bed waters eddied, gushed in black fluids,without light and life.
It was as if a great moving thing had rooted itself into the land, sightless, fingering the soil, and all the trees and plants succumbed to it, reduced, rootless themselves, grey, deathblanched.
It bore some grinning quality, his scarecrow picking a last gristle from the bone. A terrible harm fell to the land and it remained, the wound, taking the robin, the bear, the green.
Thank you Mr. McCarthy, for the inspiration.......Doug Deacy
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