Roots hung from the stretching branches of trees like they were holding onto earth but reaching out to heaven, another tradition of the south; crippling grip on the past. Someday the wind would carry it all away. But for now the sky blushes the palest shade of blue, beckoning those branches and their offerings higher, higher, higher onto heaven. For now the clouds act as distant shadows, living in the dark of pallid hues. For now the heat will turn everything static; atoms becoming one with the blanketed quiet of the stagnant air. Bees will buzz softly and erratically, drunk on heat and swimming in humidity. Forests overgrown, weeds building empires– it is summer; life explodes in green abandon.
It would seem the overgrown was draining the marrow of wooden bones. Barns sat brittle and hollow, paint peeled from houses like sun-burned skin, industry finally decaying into something organic.
It was going to storm. You could feel the electricity, the wind pulling on anything it could touch like a lonely lover and making the dry leaves rattle like snakes.
The retreating sun stain-glassed the sky like a church. The old factory stood higher than all the empty farmhouses and dilapitated barns– the earth was reclaiming them. But not the factory. It stood there like a metal and concrete giant, the silos silhouetted in the twilight like praying hands. Even in the ebbing light, storm shadows chasing light like little demons, the white of the factory walls seemed to glow. Men, who used to earn their bread and butter, scattered– some left as ghosts to wander the green exploded hills and infinite farmlands– used to call the glowing monolith Church.