The ranchero settled into the silent night gently. Dark clouds loomed across the horizon. They resembled black mountains that were slowly gliding towards him. The shadows grew deeper and crawled into every crevice they could.
He leaned onto a red bannister. His brown eyes were focused on the silhouette of a tree in the distance. A large pine tree, bent from the wind like it had scoliosis.
There was an owl in it – somewhere.
He had found the small droppings of skulls and bones scattered around the thick trunk. And one night, he had heard its hoot when laying in his bed. It came in three’s and the sound bounced from – everywhere. His sleep was gratifying that night.
He was intent on seeing it, if it happened to expose itself, he never overstayed his welcome.
As he watched the darkness tighten its grip over everything, his mind wandered. Right back into the steady overflow of work the land needed. The constant – a flutter of wind chimes sung through his thoughts.
His eyes snapped to them as a sweeping wind brushed over the porch. They jangled again. He smiled to himself and looked into the clouds.
“Shits tough, I know . . . man up.” He chuckled and it cracked with grief. He cleared his throat.
“Have I lost myself? I think so. And it wasn’t just a mere moment. I still – I don’t know.”
He let out a deep breath. The tear was heavier than his willpower. It fell down his cheek and off his chin.
“I don’t know anymore. This is how it feels. Every step forward is taken in ripe hesitation. Shaky boots like they don’t fit me.” He twisted his steel toe into the wood planks.
“It is a disgraceful fate to realize who your rock is after it is displaced. The depth of my foresight was never the best. I am cursed to wander without you.” He laughed to himself, it sounded like a broken whistle.
He rubbed the palm of his right hand down his face and blinked rapidly. A small sigh fell out of his nose as his eyes returned to the tree. The wind stopped. The chirping crickets were far and few between. Time left.
The first owl looked like a gray stone with wings. It blended into the ebony sky and darted into the direction of the oncoming storm. The second was a smaller version of the first. Mirroring it in every way except size.
The Rancher’s chest split apart and he let his tears flow freely.
(Thank you for reading. 400 words.)
I'm going to cry, beautiful isn't a powerful enough word.
I'm so in love with your imagery, the way every piece of yours paints a portrait of the unseen and unheard.
Your work is haunting, in the best way.
Oh my stars, where do I begin. Your details are always so specific. Resonate. I SEE your story unfold. But the line that caught my heart.....It is a disgraceful fate to realize who your rock is after it is displaced.
Whoa 💞