11/17/2020
Floyd
290 Reviews
Translated
Show original
Floyd
Top Review
32
The visit of the trees
Alvarson sat silently in his empty mud hut. A creaky bunk, a scary table, a wooden stool, that's all he needed. Motionlessly he stared out of the window, into the dense forests of Winesburg, hypnotized the sky over Ohio. A little myrrhic, perhaps. I don't think anybody had ever met him except Willard, and nobody came today. So, whatever happened happened, except Alvarson, but nobody ever saw him
There wriggled branches of a damp cedar fresh and spicy waving to the window. Alvarson seemed to smile. Cheeky Texan! Soon winding woody-smelling roots grew over the threshold of the small hut. Virginia seemed to be a little more juniper, Nootka from Alaska seemed a little sharper. Talked only pepper. They had all woven themselves into earthy oak moss, shimmered green as the woods in autumn, were so wild and different from Alvarson's rosewood table. There was something light and resinous about it, like freshly paneled, but also hardly a chance against the lively bustle of all the branches, which were talking through each other, sometimes talking to each other, needling the clay soil, laying moist forest soil, which they then hid under the moss again.
Alvarson had his true joy in visiting the trees. For many hours he rubbed their ethereal needles between his hands, his nose on their damp lichens, he soon lay down on the ground, somewhere in the Winesburg forest he hypnotized the sky over Ohio.
(With thanks to Bloodxclat)
Alvarson had his true joy in visiting the trees. For many hours he rubbed their ethereal needles between his hands, his nose on their damp lichens, he soon lay down on the ground, somewhere in the Winesburg forest he hypnotized the sky over Ohio.
(With thanks to Bloodxclat)
29 Comments
