This town seemed to ghost away before his eyes, daily fading into swirling dust and wind-blown curtains from open, empty windows of houses that once held vibrant life...families, laughter, connection.
The railroad spur discounted this community, sought a hard, bent-steel rail right into perceived ripened valleys of opportunity.
Mailboxes sat empty on hand-fashioned posts that lean from uncare, disuse.
The swirl of the wind whips when the life of a town is exhumed to past status.
He tilted his grimy hat brim, looking longing down streets that echoed calls of neighbors, youth, turmoil, care...he stood rigid against time with squinted eyes and a locked jaw. A fool on an empty Main Street of forgotten, moved-on-to-newer dreams; planted in his stance, he would continue this little town in words, in fistfuls of scourned, mouthed sounds, in gritty determination--disappearing words marking the dusk like Indian symbols, for those members that no longer gather.
He...cared about the Pad--people, purpose, potential. He felt it needed permanence and he obeyed--alone--because he found himself reaching out into empty night sky.
The wind quickend, the dust circled, he lowered his head and scratched positivity into the shifting dirt underfoot, trying to define time against an unyielding grind of motion.
This one stood against change for realizations...in solitude.
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