fiftyeight

The leaves fell from the tree like a slain crow’s feathers, and the warm wind thawed the frost from the night before. The house was abandoned and the yard was deserted except for the leaves and the frost and the wind and the echoes. So much paint had flaked off the outside walls that the dirt meeting the foundation was half-brown-half-ivory. And it’s far enough away that you can’t hear the city anymore, but at night a corner of the sky is orange and white and artificial.