Dust On the Leaves

Things have slowed down, life is seeping instead of flowing, and darkness lurks outside the window. The mood is deeper than the hour, and as the light that once spread overhead across the sky is now confined behind a night born veil with slits that let the light blink at night.

If the leaf wasn't sharing the same heartbeats with the earth, then blind fate would shrug out of concern, for the leaf traveled on a curious pattern, but not today. The leaf was on time, en route to destiny.

On the block where the leaf landed is history. Bad history. Bloody, grim history. Every person that ever lived and breathed and died in this city has walked this block. It is the center street in town. Nearly every murder here has occurred on this strip.

Long gone are the KKK parades, and the vigilantes that frequented, even ran a few brothels, one of them being his headquarters, nearly a half dozen weapons caches hidden in the walls, and underground. He died on the block. He always said he wanted the dust of this street to be blown across his bones. That man had a plan.