There’s a tiny story behind every happenstance. A book, diminutive in size, lays open upon the grass in the shade of an oak tree, its pages slowly beginning ruffled by a soft wind drifting past. The pages turn with a flick, then lingering as if held in place by a dreaming reader skimming over a disinteresting paragraph. The page stands upright, to then gently fall in rest.
The wind, not used to the turning of pages, continues without curiosity. A leaf lost here and there, sometimes even a whole tree may fall to the whim of the wind, but today a small collected bundle of papers does not cross the ever moving breeze’s worry. With listless grace it will move easterly & form the beginnings of Autumn rains, soaking the field once again.
This book lays quiet, telling of patience. Words waiting to be read again in time, but for now it will sit unread, staring blankly at the leaves of the Oak tree. A playing card, once used as a bookmark, is caught by a gust and slips further into the grass. The Frayed edge of a King showing wear from it’s slow solitary shuffle. Each use being pushed further and further into a story.
To why is a book left by an Oak?
Well that’s a story for another day.
Jacob McCray
-2018
Sunday Short Stories 