An old tired Louisiana Oak tree.
Still air.
Sweat freckles the skin.
It's the humidity.
I pull my legs up.
Cracking branches fall to the thick St. Augustine grass.
Sticking my hand out of the thick mossy locs.
My forefinger, wet with saliva. Points in no particular direction.
No Breeze.
Gotta go higher.
Cracking branches gripe with every new step.
Tiny sticks leave white marked cuts. It doesn't hurt though. Not yet anyway.
Popping up from the top of the wise old non swaying tree.
Unkempt kinky hair.
Sweat droplets littered above a curiously arched eyebrow.
Excited heart beat. Pounds for a break.
The Tiny cuts have morph into open wounds. Lifiting my arms above my head. A hand covered in fresh red welts.
Forefinger shiny with fresh saliva points upward.
Still no breeze.
Suddenly the old non swaying tree begins to grow.
Gotta go higher.
We'll find the Breeze eventually.
About the Creator
Amanda Black
I am a playwright that is looking for a place to stretch my legs into other mediums of creative writing.
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