Standing under the rook tree, he looked up at black missiles gathering hot and eating."What slave tough, this heat," he noted, hugging the blanket across his sweat back. It'd been a day and two days since he'd crumbled up the hill.
Wrongfully, I tried says a cowardice inside as he puts a foot against the trunk.
He'd dared to guess, took honors. He'd heightened his looks and shook out the blanket, lit it. In a famous mood it'll look like a headwind's soft, giant mouth. This too, it'll say does rush my foot.
"Gut and rifle, smash and smoosh," he'll murmur, climbing up to this pink reach, this rank branch. Slow up, gripping the arms of the tree with buttonhole-thin hands. Hands around branches like a blanket around a back or a house around the inside of a house. He'll climb and clamber, limber, limb by limb like that all day, scaring birds and ruining his good shoes. Wingspit while the pair rots.
"In a year," He's telling the birds before they de-light, "it'll be the beginning of summer. Right now, though, it's just the end of spring."
Honestly, this could take days.
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