The Power of the Dog

Phil liked it that there always followed on the heels of the vanished sun a stunning silence, an unearthly hush, and how into it crept little sounds — as night-things creep into the dark — the whispers of willow leaves and branches kissing, touching, water caressing and fondling the smooth stones in the creek, lazy human voices, close in friendship, seeping out through the canvas of the tents.

She felt suffocated in the void between her intention and her ability, and shattered by loneliness.

Flowers to take the sting out of the laughter he was sure would come because she tried to make flowers out of something that was not flowers.

She walks in beauty, like the night.

But still he clutched his dream close, embroidered it, so that now in its fruition it included a vine-covered cottage and a white picket fence.