Writing Journal March 19, 2012

Let's see how long I can get this.

The sky was a delirious painting of white and grey mountains, from which fell the occasional bright, shining drop. Thrust up against the sky, silhouetted so they seemed like great black symbols, were huge wooden wheels, mounted on incredibly tall poles. From the spokes of these wheels hung tatters of clothing and ropes, the occasional crow's nest. A gravel trail ran its way through the woods, between these great monuments. It was early spring, and the trees were bare and grey, trunks darkening to black weblike branches as the eye traveled upwards. The dead leaves and matted grasses that stretched from tree to tree were a pale yellow, drained of all life by the winter months. It was the color of old bones. Beneath the dormant canopy of trees were scattered an assortment of wooden posts, wooden scaffolding and large crosses of varying make and composition. Those same faded rags and scraps of rope clung to these structures, joined by large, heavily corroded nails. Ropes also hung from a few tree branches. Occasionally, the whole noose remained. The cool electric air of a nearby storm filled the air, mixing with the rain on all the wood, the smell of something just barely alive.