The day before the boulder

There’s one tired house in an old ghost town just North of Expiry Utah. Nobody bothered boarding up the windows of the old post office or taking down the “open” sign on the Hodgkins diner. They all just decided to up and leave the day the boulder broke loose from Mount’s Peak. It now sits on the edge of it’s millennial throne awaiting the day to plunge, and at half the size of the mountainside there’s no question where it goes.

In a place like this, with a danger like that the crows should own the sound, but every night, at a half past six, the banjo sings out loud. An old woman dances and the old man plays till the fire burns to the ground, and the sound of freedom spills out thick from every crack in the clouds.

You’d think the fear of tomorrow gone would overcast the Spring, but the sound of the birds and the smell of the rain do not seem to agree, and the clumsy thoughts of the big grey rock always seems the same, that the feel of the ground and the seed put down are the matters of today.

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