reypulque

the whispered line

The days grow slow, the light it lingers, as spring is fresh upon the breath of the earth. The last storm finally disappears from the gossip of dirt and leaf. The sky burns blue even as the cold winds rise. Shadows creep and sway in the dust. Another storm is coming, too far away to feel. Another storm is wending, to wet the lips of spring.

The dogs raise havoc, kicking and whirling about the yard. They run and bite and bark, playing chasing games of keep away and skirmished tests of strength. Where their paws find dust, the rain will paint mud as again, only a blustery night away. They strive the same way rain or shine, in the ice of winter or the fatigue of a burning summer. Beasts bent and bred after human concerns, they pace the whispered line. Blood and breath, and these fitful words. Fur and tooth, and the story always told again the same.

I walk the cluttered path between two fences, the old one built by my father, the new one built by myself and a friend. The new fence is tall and strong and a few years fresh, the redwood still choosing its color as it seasons beneath the sky. The old fence is squat and twisted, an after-thought to guard a garden that died not long after my dad. Half its posts have rotted away, and it leans and bucks in and out. It is no more than stray timber and patient moss suggesting an intention. What is left of will once its wielder leaves the world. What is left of labor once the blood is only dust and ash. I feel the warmth of the sun and the chill in the air. I pause for a moment, then I walk away.