Night storm. Tree falls.

Night storm. Tree falls. In the morning swingball stands disdainful, tosses its haughty mane. Of a single dog-chewed tennis ball on a frayed fluorescent nylon string. Tree stays down. Lies with lime-green plastic bats on the grass-green grass. Vanquished. Drums its twigs on the neighbour’s fence. Fence tilts but doesn’t fall. Tree sighs and settles. Waits.

Based on original observation by @johnhiggs

The birds fell (updated)

The birds fell, one by one. At first Ian thought they were diving but they were not, they were falling, some backwards and down as if cuffed from the sky, wings spread like crucified angels, others tilting and tipping, heads heavy with emptiness, falling and falling, wings folding. Their distant fall ended somewhere through the shimmering air. He thought of stories that had started and stories that would never. His story ended.

(www.paragraphplanet.com 21 October 2013)

The birds fell, one by one

The birds fell, one by one. At first Ian thought they were diving but they weren’t, they were falling, some blown backwards and then down as if a hand had cuffed them from the sky, others wings spread as if crucified, then tilting and tipping, their heads now heavy with thoughts of death and endlessness, then falling and falling, their wings now folded. He couldn’t see where their fall ended. It was too distant. The air shimmered.

He thought of stories that had started and stories that would never start. His story ended.