The Deed

The iciness of his smile seeped like osmosis through the crevices left on my face by the squint rooted on fires of a loud and angry sun. A tempest stormed across the dusty, red sky following the wake of his Packard of no color. His eyes with their misted askant look found us like the rain and the dark clouds took cover. Unowned feathers fled the frightened fields like tumbleweeds amid superior dusts of sleep wielding easily the pale club of the wind and swirling the soul of a flower strike. - an utter-able chill - Where lurched the deeds of green thrilling light with thinned new fragile yellows? Spoiled and stale like the scant and stunted ears of corn not able to sprinkle the acres that had fallen into battlefields. Picket's Charge in woods that stuttered and clapper-clawed songs that stirred the few scrawny birds that stayed on. Sharecroppers in the Dust Bowl walked on loose strands of primitive tightropes. One could hear the blast across the Great Plains all the way to Boise City. Blood oozed from the side of my palate, decadal fertilizer at long last leaching the dry ground. As I lay dying - he reached toward the heavens – swanking the deed and cackling like a hexed slime eel.