12th June 2018

Preposition piece

Under the murky pale blue sky lies a small farm. At the bottom of the old weather-worn fence posts of the round pen, the packed dirt spreads the farm, meeting with a grassy lawn just off from the buildings. On top of this dusty ground wooden walls rise up to meet the thatching that is pulled tightly like a coiled spring. Around the yard area the barn, the farmhouse, the stable, and the shed stand, abandoned. Up above these structures, tall bushy trees sway gently, hurrying along the passing breeze. Before the breeze can leave, large translucent drops of water begin sliding out of the sky. Down on the ground, the wind whipped farm no longer beckons to me. Next to the round pen, I turn and walk away. Between the rain and the wind, it has been decided, I am no longer welcome.

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