Pall Mall Blue 100's

It was before nine o’clock in the morning on the back porch of the house. The fall sun had abandoned the Newnan man. On the table lay a folded newspaper, the word ‘prefix’ standing out in six tiny boxes. A half-gone box of Pall Mall Blue 100’s told of thinking and speaking-each sewn within the anesthetic comfort of habit.

A blue haze tinted the timeless scene of lake and trees that sang before me. A somber song, the leaves of the mighty evergreens bellowed at the coming Night. More truth confronted by trees than by men. The crippling shadow of beauty.

I was struck by three Blue Jays, peculiar in their mirth. Refusing to let the funerary cadence stand, they went on gathering their food.