Olivienne Spencer

Tracks…
They lead to that small hut. Inside is the fire blazing, the black round pot being stirred. Quiet child soundless as her braid tied tightly relying on her back. Plain dress and Brown shoes all hush. The fire crackles for life.

Shadow…
Cast by the fire is thick and round. Round spokes make up the legs of the chair, on which sits a stone-faced man. The corner so small, the man so broad. Hair straight while gray runs faster than youth brown balancing with hardened folds and crinkles of his face. His lips thin and parallel to lines of his forehead he says nothing, doesn’t move. Hunched over he shows no sign of life but exudes vitality even with his harshness.

Fall…and
Join others. They roll off the small hut and dance on the windowsills. They hold on to each other and freeze into place making the water, lakes and rivers impenetrable; a portion of necessity and a nuisance of cultures. Snow falls while the fire winks and contrasts in a fashion of comparison.

Bear Creek
Encompasses all. The water, purification. The massacre. It is over is anyone still here? Wooded and dense but deep… a light. A brown chunk aglow screams in the night. They’re all alone but not for long. The tool has been used and this community is no longer. The quiet is silenced and loudness ensues.

Cries.
Hear them. The chair, the pot. Sign battling and fire prevails all. The man has gone. The quiet, she screams and tied tightly is loosened no more reliance.In the fallen. No more dancing. The snow. The hold is broken and it is no longer necessary. The tool has been used, no help for life. Their job is done. Stuck is love and loss by the evil that came. So they leave, their…

…tracks shadow fall… and Bear Creek cries.