The clouds tumbled in at mid-afternoon. It was difficult to tell what time of day it was. Hours had passed, Wynn was gone, without even the memory of her voice as a keepsake. I was alone with the clouds. Even old Jeremiah was gone. The wind was the only voice talking, wheezing through the corn, whistling through the cracks in the barn. It was a language that meant nothing to me now.


Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

2 thoughts on “Clouds”

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