It's a quiet night. Little wind. Down near the creek the fog is just starting to lift itself over the banks and into the tree limbs. The moon is a half circle pushing strong moonbeams over the land, backlighting the trees and making the fog a milky silver.
Not long now. Not long now. They will come.
As the night lengthens the fog gets just a little more thick and creamy. The trees stand in silent but stoic solitude. The wind begins
to move the fog into swirls and fans of rotating moziacs full of color.
Not long now. Not long now.
They will come.
The creek gurgles and bubbles around hidden rocks and not hidden rocks.
A creek song. Low. Sweet. Beguiling. A tree song is added as the wind
makes it way amongst the leaves. Soothing.
Not long now.
Not long now.
They will come.
Down by the creek forms are taking shape. Some short and upright. Some long and horizontal. They move together with the help of the wind. It is a fence. Transluscent. Wooden. The creek sings its song.
Not long now.
Not long.
They come.
Other figures form. Man like. Transluscent. Two lines of men. On each side of the milky silver fence. At opposite ends of the fence. They walk towards each other. Soldiers. From a long ago age. Soldiers.
Other sounds now. Voices. Words. In a whisper. Hard to hear. What are they saying? Like a child in bed listening to parents in another room. Can't make out what is being said.
The lines of soldiers move past each other slowly. Fog figures nod to each other. Milky silver hands reach out to other milky silver hands. They stop.
Words become more distinct. A word here. "Sorry" "Wrong" "Johnny".
A salute from one line of soldiers to the other. Is that a tear from unseen eyes? What is being said?
The wind fails. All is quiet. Even the creek is not singing now. The words come through the quiet night.
"Sorry Johnny Reb. You were right"
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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