Faded Houses Green

In the stillness of dusk, along the river bank, a distance from the big, red barn, Matilda aided the poor souls of the dear trees in spring along their lugubrious way.

Clint had mocked Matilda’s earnest respect, but when else would a man of his ilk come along for the night of his short life? Until the forest of Dunsinane comes none too far up the path to the belfry above the barn, Matilda would diligently do the due diligence due the matter, not for a spot, not for a groat–not for a ton of wicked livers in the cauldron of gloom.

Clint was oblivious to the metaphysics of the situation, but Matilda made it up for the both of them in spades and rakes alike. The asphalt shingles lay where Clint forgot to move them, and the vibrant life of the seersucker suit earned enough for them both. The path was not wide, but it was straight, and the corn on the hob would pop when the clock struck midnight.

Cluck!

Clint said where would you be without me? Matilda said, “shhh–the stillness is lifting, and justice is nigh!”

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