by Michael C. Keith
The sudden movement of the tiny cluster of cottonwoods out beyond the barn caught Matthew’s attention. It aroused his curiosity since nothing else moved in any other direction. In fact, the air had been dead for days, with only the occasional dust devil in the paddock stirring the parched western Nebraska soil.
When he moved toward the trees, the wind intensified, causing their limbs to lift and fall as if they were attempting flight. For a split second the smallest of the trees resembled his deceased father’s silhouette, and Matthew stopped to focus on it. When he did, its human likeness faded and stillness descended on the scene. “Dad!” he called out. Then the skies opened.