Jeremiah

Jeremiah stood, as he did for morning upon morning before, at the top of his hill. A single bird made its song somewhere above. He looked out over the rolling hills and fields and the dots of woodlands that were just starting to gain their lustre in these cold days. He looked out and was nothing more, nor nothing less than happy.

Beneath his windmill, he turned and waited for the blade to lumber past.

Jeremiah stood, as he did for many mornings before, at the top of their hill. Two birds sang their song above. He looked out over the rolling hills and fields and the dots of woodlands that were vividly green and bright now, in the days that were long, bright and warm. He looked out and was the happiest man that he’d ever known or met and there was reason for this.

Beneath his windmill, he turned and waited for the blade to lumber past and made his way indoors.

Jeremiah stood, as he did countless mornings before, at the top of that hill. He looked over the rolling hills and the pastures of farms and the dots of woods and forests that turned auburn in the days that have been getting colder and colder. Only one bird could be seen in the sky above him, and it nested in his windmill. Jeremiah no longer cared.

Beneath his windmill, he turned and waited for the blade to lumber past.

Jeremiah stood, as he did for many mornings before, countless and now without number, at the top of her hill. He looked over the rolling hills and the pastures of farms and the dots of woods that held their skeletal fingers into the air above them in the days that froze earth and hearth alike. Jeremiah’s pigeon friend could neither be seen, nor could he be heard.

Jeremiah stood beneath his windmill, put the necklace around his neck, and waited for the blade to lumber past.

He pushed the stool from beneath his feet.

– by Kier Sparey

© Copyright Kier Sparey 2013