The Snow Tree by Brian Michael Barbeito

August 30, 2012 Comments Off on The Snow Tree by Brian Michael Barbeito

In the day, the crows stood around. Inside the large dwelling, a blackbird had been staying, and for some reason was no longer right — and stopped while being chased, in order to eat things, denying itself the available freedom of vast skies. Eventually the bird died and floated in nearby waters. It looked like a thing that had been dead forever. A pop went in the distance — and the old widow inquired about it in an accusatory voice: ‘Who lit a firecracker?’ When she was told that it could have been anything— gave a look— mostly stoic— that said she was not buying that, was pledging faith to her own interpretation. In the night, it was colder.  The tree with groupings of flowers like large white snowballs had shed itself. The moon made the ground look like a winter ground in summer. Winds seemed to go ‘bang’ but never actually went ‘bang.’ A lady stretched out her arms. Her finger touched a cord that had been compromised. A bolt of electricity shot out, and there was a large flash of light that could be seen out of the corners of eyes from all sides of the room. She sat there in physical and emotional shock. Her jaw structure was pretty, and she had eyes that were light brown but appeared more often than not as dark brown. The next night, the storms raged so fiercely that the grand roof of the auditorium made a rumbling sound. There was lightning here and then there — and hail falling straight as if each piece had been aligned with a cosmic level — and then brought down with a large force towards the earth. Watchers of the shows sat cautiously and made regular conversation to mask their fear. In the distance— when the sun came up again— people battled in life by and in the district where it was dangerous. The police pulled over a car that had odd looking plates — and after a long time — a tow truck showed up also. The sun was fierce. There was a lady that was pale. Two ladies drinking milkshakes. There were a couple of men at a gas station — one had a good and pleasant disposition — the other a blackened heart that was fastened with contempt and ridicule. Days. No dusk bats. Time kept receding. The sun staying in the sky like a neon beet. So many crows again. Then more rain made the frogs come out, and an old turtle stood to the side of the road. Waiting. There was a woman with eyes that were home to the divine goddess, but the woman did not know this. The woman had no hint of this. But the divine goddess stayed there nevertheless. Forever. A man died in a library, and a man died in a bed. Every night around then, and for many nights to come — that tree and its snowy ways stood alone — and glistened with a purposeful indifference.

© 2012 Brian Michael Barbeito

Brian Michael Barbeito is a resident of Ontario, Canada. The author of the prose poem novel Postprandial, a compilation of short writings entitled Vignettes, and a collection of flash fiction called Windows without Glass. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is a writer of fiction, non-fiction, book and film reviews. He has writing in or forthcoming at various venues such as Glossolalia, Synchronized Chaos, Otis Nebula, Kurungabaa, and NFTU (Notes from the Underground) magazines.

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