Transition

I walk down an empty street. Noises echo through the dark. Creatures sprawl in the shadows as their eyes watch me move down a solitaire path. They sing a weary tone. They murmur.

The ground is wet from a bit of rain leaving the air with a particular smell. The wind takes the trees for a dance. A whirlwind song: it whistles and whispers, whistles and whispers.

I keep to myself, not giving it to the cold or my cautious audience. I plant my hands deeper into my pockets and walk a little faster. And as to keep up with my pace, the leaves grow louder, they rustle stronger. The wind sings its ballad for the night.