G. K. Starkwater
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Waltz of the Ozarks
Dawn’s golden light spilled across the broad meadow, illuminating drying grasses and brambles that had recently begun their autumn dormancy. Here and there, ideally-positioned dewdrops captured a passing beam and forcibly split it into its component colors, so that the vegetation seemed adorned with fantastical rainbow-hued gems. The mid-October air had its characteristic nip, but hadn’t yet acquired the deep chill that late-November’s bow season would bring. Somewhere in the distance, a fire smoldered in a woodstove or a hunter’s camp, lending its hardwood smoke scent to the breeze that it rode. Soon, the surrounding forest would come alive with the subdued sounds of a midwestern forest in autumn, the occasional caw of crows, rustling of dried leaves on forest floor as squirrels, rabbits, and gamebirds went about their daily business, but for now all was silence.
By G. K. Starkwater2 years ago in Horror