A piece of writing, for the writing of it. A fragment of something bigger. Is it prose? Prose poetry perhaps, just a short story or fluff and nonsense, let me know what you think.
Beneath the trees, in the layered green of a spring morning, I stand by the stream that runs through woods that have been lightly touched by rain. The slanted light of the sun is high enough to lift a mist, the ground glints and the stream has not collected enough water to be noisy. I am waiting for the young deer twenty yards ahead to notice me here, moments pass and birds call, we are both aware of a difference. Shadows cross the trunks of the trees, the smell of resin and rotted wood grows stronger with the day and the deer knows something is near. As he turns to find the difference between me and the background our cold breath rises, a simple light shadow in the air. I lean slightly to clear my view and he is gone into the bracken and bushes, where he waits then for me to move away. Going deeper into the shadows the damp leaves muffle my steps to try to catch sight of the creature but he is gone and I am once again walking in solitude. On an old track a building sits back and waits for entropy to finish, vines pull inexorably at the walls and the damp air has taken the framing, even the places we have been grow old while we look away. All the while the land has been rising and as I clear the woodland to walk across high meadows the weather is waiting for me to break cover, more patient than me in its stalking. A heavy mist has lowered itself and drips from everything, not rain yet, just wet to the touch. There is rain coming though, the air is colder, the wind moves with purpose towards lower ground and I follow the stream to its crossing of a track. The turning point and cloudburst, when it can no longer be contained and the long landscape drifts in and out of sight. I descend back into the shadows, I am lost to sight.
A question or two.
When you see the words written, do you look at the spaces?
Is this as it seems, A dream, a retelling, a metaphor?