He crossed the yard, stepped over the broken part of the fence and went through the woods. A misting rain was in the air and a few hurried birds passed, shouting in confusion. He stopped beside a dead log in the woods and looked up toward the sky. Up there was a bottomless grey and the clouds rolled and turned into each other with a hazy violence. When the wind moved through the tops of the trees a loud hush came up and their branches moaned like men's voices. He crossed the grassy road that went to the old church and graveyard but he didn't go down that road. He put his hands in his pockets. The old pines whispered.
Tinkling songs hung in the air. Small animals copulated quietly in the undergrowth. Snakes coiled into themselves under piles of leaves and strange lullabies hushed through the dark trees. Frightened mothers whispered to frightened children, Hush little baby, don't be afraid, but this was no place for that. This was a place for murder songs and fire-chanteys, cold guns and knives. He never understood lullabyes.
Out here was no room for mercy. Out here was winds.
Cold winds.
See over there, at the foot of that old oak tree? See that messed up dirt?
That's where the little murdered boy was buried. That little murdered boy was still there, though. He was not dead. A fast wind whipped through the woods and the dead boy clapped. He howled and did an old man buck dance and pointed at the sky.
Look at those black birds coming down! The little dead boy was at the edge of the woods now, shouting: Go away hollering birds and flapping clapping wings—I'm picking blackberries for my grandmother—I eat the dew out of honeysuckles and the bees don't bother me! I skinned the black snake that climbed the trees and ate your babies—his skin is on mama's porch and his head is in my pocket! Quit your hollering—I don't want any songs like that. My daddy's dead and my mama is to—I even died one time when I was a little boy Ha Ha! The church choir already sung and ain't no sense in reminding me about something I don't want to remember. Ama-a-a, zi-ing Gra-a-a-a-ace! Ho-o-w swe-e-ee-t thuhh sownd. Thorns and thorns and blackberries and thorns Tweet Tweet Tweet Tweet them leaves are falling down when the wind blows them down! Whoa! Ha Ha Ha Preshus Memrees how thay Lingurr How thay ayvur Flud my Soo Ha Ha Ha! Catch them! Fly through them you birds! Whoa look at that! In thuh sti-uhlniss uhv thuh midnite You old birds! Come here you bird!
The screaming blackbirds scattered through the woods. Hawking and shouting.
A hard wind blew.
Then everything disappeared—the only things left were the trees and the sky. A cold, trembling silence touched his eyes.
He stood there still and alone.
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