The poplars listened, for listening was all they ever did.
Once all of the humans who had lived in their land perished from disease, there was no need for fear. They simply stood on their hills and listened intently.
They listened as the sun rose, casting its rays upon sleeping graves. They listened as the day fell from the narrow rock of noon. They listened as the night crept in on ancient feet, followed by the surreal black no-time that reigned before the dawn came.
The poplars loved to listen, though sometimes it became a little too much.
These trees were old, older than the sounds they ached for, older than the graves that dotted the malnourished ground. Nothing had stirred for years except their interlinked branches, shifting in the gentle wind.
They listened for something, anything. They waited over a century, but nothing ever came. Now that was about to change. In this land cloaked by complete silence, the poplars began to whisper.
I hear something: Oh
a beating heart What
a roll of thunder Could
a trailing nightmare It
fear. Be?
Small gray wings sent drumbeats through the air. Large black wings cleared a path through the silence.
The woman and bird landed on the crown of a poplar and slept there all night long.
YOU ARE READING
Aeolia
General FictionA woman runs from everything. A songbird joins her from nowhere, singing colors and images. A whisperer finds the pair among a field of poplars and graves. A dark and vicious viper stalks them from deep in the earth. They must flee from the Viper...
