So there I sat, hard upon the rocky soil under that solid tree. While the sun cast sleepy orange rays through the haze, I watched as that aging house slowly faded, panel by failing panel.
Many years stretched out, before and behind me. I could remember a time when those panels shone brightly in the evening sun and the windows reflected a grassy lawn before the bustling mouth of the bayou. Funny -- just as I could readily remember these picturesque days, I could just as easily foresee the day when the decrepit timbers of this strong house would slump here upon the rocky soil in one lifeless heap.
Honestly, it isn’t out of sadness nor some somnambulistic impulse that I recite these thoughts of mine. I feel no pity for those strong timbers, nor for those mourning souls who have long since deserted the site. It’s really more of a morbid curiosity that I have, and a wonderment at such forces as might have conspired to bring about such a strong house and, in due time, crumble it into such a pile of languid timber.
