12/15/2020
Floyd
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A land of shining ashes
No one knew who had given Wayne the old shotgun, and when he fired it thunderously at the old brick wall in the gloomy backyard, there billowed spicy black clouds, like little clouds over lighter stones, only darker and denser, and inside, faint lights of bergamots sooty.
And as soon as the mist had cleared, there in the wall was a mighty hole, a wound that smelled a little cheesy at first, and burned, as if the wall had been cauterized, as if animals had smeared themselves on it. Wayne wondered, for there was no longer a house behind it, no yard. Instead, he stared at the knotty bones of ancient trees, their branches like fingers trying to hold the myrrhic sky, the balsamic spice, the vague warmth that was there, and their roots barely finding a foothold in the earthy resins, so they drank in what they stood in and never stopped smelling of burnt, wet wood.
Then there were the mighty spruces, menthol and camphor, the green glow, with hairs of damp, pungent grass and a skin of oakmoss, that lit the yard through the hole for hours, ethereal dark green waves slowly disappearing into old earth beneath all the decaying trunks.
As everything settled into the smell of black tobacco, Wayne imagined his father standing beside him, plucking the knaster from the old leather pouch, staring through the wall as well. Was that you, Wayne? This is beautiful. A land of shining ash.
And as soon as the mist had cleared, there in the wall was a mighty hole, a wound that smelled a little cheesy at first, and burned, as if the wall had been cauterized, as if animals had smeared themselves on it. Wayne wondered, for there was no longer a house behind it, no yard. Instead, he stared at the knotty bones of ancient trees, their branches like fingers trying to hold the myrrhic sky, the balsamic spice, the vague warmth that was there, and their roots barely finding a foothold in the earthy resins, so they drank in what they stood in and never stopped smelling of burnt, wet wood.
Then there were the mighty spruces, menthol and camphor, the green glow, with hairs of damp, pungent grass and a skin of oakmoss, that lit the yard through the hole for hours, ethereal dark green waves slowly disappearing into old earth beneath all the decaying trunks.
As everything settled into the smell of black tobacco, Wayne imagined his father standing beside him, plucking the knaster from the old leather pouch, staring through the wall as well. Was that you, Wayne? This is beautiful. A land of shining ash.
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