A kettle boils somewhere in the house.
Cold. Distant. An echo.
A woman in a black veil falls
into the wash of the waterfall.
Whispers in the front room,
a herd of puppets
knocking in to each other:
frequent looks to the wooden case on display.
Tink, tink!
The herd’s attention is drawn,
as the kettle shrieks,
to a single speaker whose vague body
just about distinguishes itself
from the bled-out decor.
Dry words. Pale words. Words said with a wry grin and frail voice.
Lost.
All at once, the herd vanishes.
The kettle gets poured.
Treeshallow Musings 