Wet earth beneath his feet. Soft impacts of snowflakes tapping on the shoulders of his jacket. Hands in pockets, head down. The wind sifting through unseen branches. No voices, no signs of existence outside the dull sphere of firelight. The wind quickens, pushes orange embers away from the fire and into the night. He tucks his face into the collar of his jacket, looks at the fire. He looks deep into the bed of coals, little pockets of flame licking up at the falling snow. He stands and lets the fire die, its light lost and heat radiated away until it is just him and the wind and the tapping snowflakes and the sound of his breath in the night.
Definitely feels like a good end to something. What it is an end to? I have no idea. Haven't been able to get back in that frame of mind. Probably a bit too Cormac McCarthy, but I liked it. More to come.
3.28.2009
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