Alone in the Crowd

The scene is warm but the angle is deceptive and the sun's light has no power to heat the lands. Later, a Viewmaster moon hangs over a cold blue screen, framed by a row of twisted black, empty limbs that lay in ghostly rows. Whispers come in all the cracks and holes that the wind can find, making bedtime and whisky an unbreakable bond. An emptied soul can be filled. Some nights I think of all the girls I've loved when the wicked wind churns in the naked branches just outside.