The Witnesses
By Brian Michael Barbeito
Posted on
At that angle you could see that the wind arrived at the tree to lift its branches. Raising them up with a slight and determined motion, like horses go upwards on a merry-go-round, the thick and layered leaves made for worlds inside the structures of the branches. The wind stayed in there, and only after long moments let the branches and its accompanying leaves down. Up the way a chime hung from a metal hook. It was terra cotta, with someone having painted blue depictions of Kokopelli all around it. Purple flowers waited in a hanging container beside the chime, and when the sun was strongly lit these opened more than they were used to doing, and then stretched a bit towards aerial brightness.
In the summer’s end the leaves weakened and fell, each batch getting to know the ground and the curt suburban lawns and boulevards for the first time.…
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