Silver Creek here we stand

@Lio

In silence he moves deliberately to nowhere, the sky bare and violent like teeth just pre-veneer, naked tungsten sparking in a bulb, the brightest day in recent memory even in the shade of the woods. In Silver Creek, as the end draws upon him, the trees seem to want to talk. 

An adolescent hunching to his shoulders, his neck coltish and corded, this morning's grooming leaving his dark hair slicked close to his skull, the light tracing a perfect cuticle curve.

As he walks he imagines a hydraulic hiss escaping him. There was Déorwine smell on the wind. What it smelled like was old money and other leftovers from a bygone era evoking images of passenger pigeons and Victorian theatres that were quaintly lovely but were lightyears away from standard fire-safety regulation.

His nostrils flare. The search was over.