black shingles
silver turbine that hasn’t spun
doesn’t spin
or spins very quickly
it appears to be standing still
two chairs
separated by a small table
hold fast in want
on the wooden deck
the dark windows reflect
the setting sun, branches,
the billowing clouds in
the portent sky; obscured
what goes on behind
those walls
in this red house
of the trees
murder?
incest?
infidelity?
– she waddles
down the sidewalk, grey shirt,
saggy black shorts, white
headphones dangling; sunglasses
quick pace; I stare and
attempt to uncover something
arousing about her listless body –
what goes on behind
those red walls
of this house
in the trees?
someone crying?
a child dying?
suicide?
the ducks begin feeding
near the lake’s shore
their tails twerk
with their heads submerged
a light inside ignites
to vanish
a branch snaps
above the water
there is a red house
in the trees
Header photograph © Jason D. Ramsey.
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