I’ll be riffing from last night’s characture piece as best I can today…
The cherry evening shaded into a frog-croaking night like the day had held a honey of a sun. Garna sat cross-legged in a rocking chair on her veranda. Her feet hadn’t touched the voluptuously over-sized Cypress planking for an hour or more. The rocker blades ended in ferny curls: both segmented and green. A full jar of home-brewed stout sweated next to two empties. Jimlly would need to get here soon or the fourth jar would turn Garna’s enthusiastic welcome home into something that would require a hose were they dogs.
At the top of her next sip or the next or the one after that Garna presently spied a coach on the road. The coach’s lit lantern jaggled and frounced at the end of a what might be a fishing pole hook set to the side of the cabin. Her drunken heart thrilled to the sight of it and she stood woozy grasping the viney rail not at first realizing it drove out of the West. Jimlly would be out of the East.
The coach dipped down into the creekbed dribble at the bottom of the hill it crested and out of sight. During that stretched out time Garna’s beery frame showed no change. No alteration from excited drunk to disappointed drunk. But she had come to the conclusion this coach would not hold her husband.
Then. The coach popped fly-in-the-eye to the top of the yard like plum oxen didn’t walk but miragically appeared from starts to finishes as needed by their driver. This coach weren’t overly typical but it weren’t underly so neither. The toy ball shaped and sized lantern turned out to be hanging from a fishing pole after all. But it jounced and fraggled more than it jaggled and frounced. It was red.