Thy rod and thy staff comfort me.
The foliage is dense, clouded, and shadows quiver over the ground. Bushes crawl past me, shrubs of red berry-bushes and broken brown fingers turned to stone.
Snap. Crack. Shudder. Stop. Whistle. Blow. Breathe.
The heady scent of boiled rock rises from the cement street, as cars blows out gasps of oil and burnt smoke. The exhaust is indiscernible, like a small mosquito flying in the face of the sun.
I am adventure. The woods soar past me, afraid of my daunting face. They shrivel in fear at my gnarled and twisted arm of wood, and whisper meaningless threats behind my back. Eyes cowl from the grass, and sounds, like dying flames, wicker into ash, as they attempt to gloat over my greatness.
I am youth. I am dreams. I am timeless.
***
Below the house on the hill, a young boy plays among the bushes. He holds a brown walking stick in one hand, and begins to run to the north, along the side of the hill.
He brushes into a path only he has made after long hours of fastidiously removing the sharp and briny sticks from various bushes along the way. He climbs inside a small sanctuary, shielded by darkness and a hush.
He sits cross-legged, and watches the cars zoom by on the road below. He picks up a rock, contemplates throwing the rock into the traffic, but tosses the rock instead up the hill, into his yard.
His brother takes a step onto the hill, his foot lifting over the fallen wooden plank used as a door, in a fence-hole. He looks stares, his sharp eyes exacting the space, spotting every shadow and every shred of light. The older boy remains hidden in the shadows of his green sanctuary, careful not to make a move.
And then the bushes rustle, and the younger boy standing near the fence dashes into the bushes. The chase is on.
The foliage is dense, clouded, and shadows quiver over the ground. Bushes crawl past me, shrubs of red berry-bushes and broken brown fingers turned to stone.
Snap. Crack. Shudder. Stop. Whistle. Blow. Breathe.
The heady scent of boiled rock rises from the cement street, as cars blows out gasps of oil and burnt smoke. The exhaust is indiscernible, like a small mosquito flying in the face of the sun.
I am adventure. The woods soar past me, afraid of my daunting face. They shrivel in fear at my gnarled and twisted arm of wood, and whisper meaningless threats behind my back. Eyes cowl from the grass, and sounds, like dying flames, wicker into ash, as they attempt to gloat over my greatness.
I am youth. I am dreams. I am timeless.
***
Below the house on the hill, a young boy plays among the bushes. He holds a brown walking stick in one hand, and begins to run to the north, along the side of the hill.
He brushes into a path only he has made after long hours of fastidiously removing the sharp and briny sticks from various bushes along the way. He climbs inside a small sanctuary, shielded by darkness and a hush.
He sits cross-legged, and watches the cars zoom by on the road below. He picks up a rock, contemplates throwing the rock into the traffic, but tosses the rock instead up the hill, into his yard.
His brother takes a step onto the hill, his foot lifting over the fallen wooden plank used as a door, in a fence-hole. He looks stares, his sharp eyes exacting the space, spotting every shadow and every shred of light. The older boy remains hidden in the shadows of his green sanctuary, careful not to make a move.
And then the bushes rustle, and the younger boy standing near the fence dashes into the bushes. The chase is on.
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