The evening was windy. The wind whipped the sky clean; it showed signs of its punishment in a sunset that was red and raw, in the welts on the horizon. The air was icy and cold – a visitor from the Antarctic, swimming like a penguin through the melting atmosphere. The world was empty and ready for battle.
The night was gusty. The wind was ill: spitting and coughing; wheezing and asthmatic. It whirled from all four compass points, clashing and tearing swaths of breath before flinging them towards the shocked and pacific moon.
I heard tiny deaths – bodies flung against my window, then bouncing back into the invisible war. Like battalions of hail, they drummed against my window. Ribbons of strata were torn from the earth, exposing the histories buried in the earth. Birds held their children in their unraveling nests. Trees knelt to the ground. Cats narrowed their eyes and followed the airborne battles, marking the unseen maps.
The morning was quiet. Thte sidewalks were strewn with corpses, the blossoms that would never experience a flowering adulthood, a proud summer. The limbs of flowers were holding onto their living colors despite the brutal night – their dying breaths were still sweet.
Occasionally a weakened breeze, disrespectful of the dainty carnage, began a quiet shower of petals. They fell on my shoulders like a mourning veil as I walked through the fragrant graveyard.