Faded Houses Green

Or among the wholesalers, possessed by her anguish, enlightened by his charm, and dappled by their chromaticism, Angel flew out the window and up the street.

The street had been paved these past ten years, having been a gravel road for three generations and a century-old two-track before that. Hogs fed on the rapier weed in the meridian at precisely one-o’clock post meridian, as it were, or sometimes weren’t. Songbirds fed on the chains of daisies going their own way along the landslide of silver tulips sliding up the land, landing on the slide, fleeting, in their own manner, absolved by the rain that forgot no one’s name. Cathedrals of roses let it be known how far the zinnias could go, but little did they know, they knew new flights of Angels winging them to their rest.

And the rest was silence. Or was it history? Or both?