Clothes whack the drum as they tumble in the dryer. A cell phone screams, its jangled cry competes with a barrage of bias spewing from anchors' lips.
Chaos.
I pick up a novel and step outside, into the end of the day. A buttery sun melts over my neighbor's roof as I rest in a rocker that once graced the front porch of a down-home restaurant.
Girls laughing in an adjoining yard splash in an above ground pool. Child's play. A lawnmower issues a low growl, but it can't threaten me here. I open my book. As I rock, the runners thunk against the wood slates of my deck, marking time.
A fine sheen of sweat dampens my skin, but I lounge in the chair and descend into Tara, her desolate land scorched by Grant's saber. Frightened eyes plead hunger while wolves creep closer for the kill. The strong seeks out the weak and cries, "Oh, Ashley! Whatever shall we do?"
A broken man examines impotent hands. "We Southerners did think we were gods."
Heat coils around me on the breeze. Light the color of ash grays the sky. I lay my tome on my chest and rock. Lightning bugs and stars begin their evening twinkle. The lawnmower dies, and in the silence, a television bleeds into the night spewing wars and rumors of wars.
The rocker marks time as dusk descends on the gods.