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| Overhead the stars shine back coldly,
a blanket of uncaring black velvet studded by billions of tiny diamonds. Below
this is a field, covered in swaying wheat, rippling and undulating to the motion
of the strong wind. Amidst a patch of clear ground grows a trio of maple trees,
a sing set creaking in the middle of the triangle they form. As the wind rustles
the leaves on the trees, rubbing them together with a dry crackling, a sound reminiscent
of a clarinet rolls over the clearing, thin and reedy. It mixes with the rustling
of the leaves, the unoiled creaking of the rusty, unused swing, and creates an
aura of intense desolation. The wind possess a sharp edge, chilling everything
it contacts with its icy touch. Running over the rippling wheat, approaching the
clearing, the wind passes through the trees, stopping to swirl around the swing,
hearing the lonely music played by the clearing, and commences its run across
the wheat, leaving the clearing as it was, untouched by human eyes for years,
biding its time, alone.
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