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Silence Season


The sickness came in the spring. It came little by little, red faced and thin people like odd unsteady flowers, emerging from the cold. Hustle and bustle, like a busy hive, washed onward. Inevitable as the tides. Who would notice a thinning there, a lessening here? Who had the time? 


Summer embraced. Everything was green, and alive, and quiet avenues at night practically shook with animal aria. Windows lit by candlelight, throwing intimate vignette shadows here and there where whispering shapes hunched over them. Far away storm clouds loomed heavy and bruised, like they’d taken the souls of everyone perished. 


Chilly night by chilly night the candles lessened, the whispers stolen away by mourning breezes. The leaves were vibrant and showy, mountains of rioting color like the trees wanted their last act to put sunrises and wildfire to shame. No one raked, no one cleaned. In the endless silence, wind played its game. 


Snow enveloped the world. Embryonic whiteness that turned everything into outlines of itself, sketches and figments. Doorways left open long ago yawned and creaked, the snow piling inside. Stillness that hummed and sang in its quiet, empty way. Forever and a day.

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