It has to be completely silent in order to write effectively.The pepsi must be kept in the shade,the squirrels must be perched on their branches and the sunlight must make the bark of the huge tree its canvas.Shadows must be hazy and inaccurate on the mulch-ridden ground,cigarette butts and broken branches scattered artistically among the green grass.
It is too late to go anywhere now,the slow-setting sun is playing with her golden brown hair.Smooth,plain,with no dire consequences.She has nothing to do but to hunch over and look at the weary trail as he flashes aluminum foil in her eyes,making her squint.She sings quietly;
'My baby is red bird
flyin across the sky
My baby is a bluebird
learnin how to ful-ly'
He throws a rock in a puddel,dirty at that.The wind slowly drives the fleas away.He pauses, studying every line God put on her skin.
'You're a child of the soul'
'You have wheat in your hair'
She stared,feeling shivers down her spine.It wasn't fair.
His hat flew off,hiding somewhere in the messy field.The beat got faster and her foot started tapping.By the time he got his hat back,she was gone.Her hair ribbon stayed though.
Some things know when not to leave.