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Weekly Contest #252
When St. Beetle rolled in, bobbing back and forth like floating heads and seductive hips, our leaves went still from the dead air, our branches recoiled from the cold sun. We watched him come in, the young skin that shone warm against the summerless sky, amidst the wailing ghosts. We followed him intently and kept note of those who hid behind their white picket fences. A few blinds closed, curtains rustled, smoke stopped from the chimneys: a silence that hid them in the cold. He may have sensed it too for he placed his hand to buds on his ne...
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