The tree hungover in the crisp wind. Moving back and forth swaying with spindly sinewy twigs and branches. It was perfectly proportioned, like a giant lampshade. And ironically, a few bulbs hung from the trees’ branches. To give it more character than it already had. Like piercings on an afro curled head. Each branch hung down like a strand of hair. Resting out and over like bangs but surrounding the trees head limbs. Each limb, straight but jutting in different growths.
To the right, the moon in the background. A crescent, third night available to the eye, already gaining increased height during sunset in the third trimester of winters’ setting sun.
Short Stories