The small old hound

The small, old hound, tormented by children, running, dodging, exhausted and confused about the intent of the pursuers, struggled against the many with an unexpected result, bayed in the hot sun for the last time.

The next day filled with incapable grieving, unbearable grief,and special preparations and wishes, for the midsummer's dream in the night to follow.

In the of sparkling darkness, a well worn dog collar, brown, tan, cracked, and healed by many careful oil treatments, lies gently under the tree. A polished silver band attached and embedded into the leather, embossed with the name Elsinore, polished so often that the letters are no longer well defined, begins to reflect the approaching light. 

The sun relectantly creeps to the horizen after the crytal night, doing all it can to hold back the day. The maple in the old farm pastures hollow grows uncrowded, hidding in the open, surrounded by lush grass, ankle deep and soft to the bottom of each blade. Surrounding the lone tree, the meadow, rolling with subtle drumlins, sparkles with the dew at the seam of night and dawn, while the firecracker colors of the morning wildflowers prepare to burst.

The sun peeks, and the leaves move as a subtle breeze builds with the rising morning sun until the leaves begin to rustle. The rustling builds and echos lightly in the air inviting the birds to join in the moment, the insects follow with their quiet din, and the first creak of the bough calls out. With each breeze  the creak grows and the sun illuminates and warms the pair, swinging softly, the nooses tightly holding the corpses, one a day the senior of the other, the dog and an unfortunate idiot boy, senturies of the dawn.