Silhouette Of Sleeping Solitude

Adog barks at it at dusk. A painter paints it. Everyone else thinks nothing of it. Branches in winter, frozen in time by the eerily silent slumber of everything you used to think alive. Hangouts for crows gossiping and cussing, apart from the days the snow finds its way to cover them gently in fluffs of white. It knows the story. The story that’s not being told. The stories ignored by the crows. The words behind the silence. The dog knows it. The snowflakes know it. The painter sees it. A lone, cold, hungry huntsman, frozen black and blue by his lost ways, sharpens his axe looking at the lonely tree. Nothing to hunt in sight, but maybe he won’t have to die of cold tonight. The crows stupidly laugh, forgetting they’re sitting on the very tree about to die. Their laughter is deafening. Their stupidity frightening. The dog keeps barking, and the painter keeps painting. Quick calculated, masterful strokes. Angry, pleading barks. “Leave the tree alone”, she barks. “Die crows, die”, she paints. It’s a race against the hourglass. Against tree turning into ashes. The sounds of the determined huntsman sharpening his axe slashes into the dusk like a demon’s scourge into a horse’s skin. The sun bleeds its last ray of red, but the painter has but black and white to change the story. All the shades of grey. “Leave the tree alone”, she paints. “Have the rest of the forest, and leave the tree”, she mutters as she desperately pours the distance onto the canvas with her last drip of grey paint. <a href="https://attilavago.medium.com/silhouette-of-sleeping-solitude-52e91d56ec1f">Click Here</a>