Mary-Allison Flagstone

Henry straightens out his hunch, he’s spritelier than he leads on—He still looks old though. Moonlight beams from the clouds momentarily for me to take in my surroundings. The grass is dead, drained of any color. A large oak tree withers, almost as much as Henry. Slick rocks carve out enough land for a waterfall, which I guess, used to splash into what must have been a lake at some point. Now it’s just a ditch full of dust and dirt.

Silver light ...