There is a street that I sometimes use when the red light two blocks away and a trail of traffic convince me to make the turn instead of staying forward. It is a simple street; a routine route for those living on that road and for those living nearby or that hold jobs within the area.
The street is not the important part, however; the trees (some bright Hackberries, others melancholy Mesquites) on this street do something enchanting. All along the street, the opposing trees are parallel from one another; they have a counterpart on the other side that seems to be anxiously awaiting their touch. After decades of growth, hurricanes, lightning storms, heatwaves, cold fronts, and all other agrarian blitzkriegs that the Earth unleashes, and the waste stream that drunken men and quivering dogs unleashed, these trees have found their ways into each others arms, forming a beautiful canopy of nature; green and gray hovering over the worn, weary gravel, sanctifying the people and their homes.
Like every act of beauty, there are secrets behind the majesty. During the day, most folks leave for work while some cars remain parked in front of the houses. But at night, after nine-thirty in the evening, Magic Canopy Street is barren; no cars anywhere in sight, no lights on within any of the houses, and the only light signifying any life at all stems from the moonbeams stretching from the galaxy halo encircling the moon.
An uneasy, quixotic feeling blankets my insides every time I drive down Magic Canopy Street after nine-thirty at night. I know the names of everyone murdered on that street, in the last six years, right when the tree limbs began to touch, the last murder occured; and while the deaths have stopped, disappearences have not, so I wonder, as I drive down this dark, lifeless avenue, if other stranger things have not already begun.
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