Does mouse on the rocky hillside perceive the orange and violet hues of the Rocky Mountain sunset above it? Does its nerves relax in the serene shades of twilight or does the night bring a fear of foes?
With a little fuel and canola oil, poured into a chainsaw, a bowl of oatmeal and a sandwich in my belly, I change the horizon before me.
Dead treetops fall from the sky as I run to safety, fleeing the work of my hands and the physical forces I have unchained from wooden tombs. A building swoosh of wind, a sudden crack as lightning, my foe is laid to waste on the rocky hillside. The home of mouse.
As a cook efficiently chops up broccoli florets without drawing their own blood, so I get to work disassembling the matchbox that was once a proud conifer swaying gleefully in the evening breeze, displaying on its flaky bark the colors of the setting sun, enshrined in burning horizon. Branches are laid to rest, no more compression, no more tension; the wind quietly mourns the being that once gave it song.
Now the wind patiently waits, sometimes rages, as time blows by, for the time when new flames will be kindled, releasing its towering lover’s offspring into the soils of a new day. The return of the song of wind in the home of mouse.
Your’s truly,
Dually
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