The red summer sun sets behind Rattlesnake outside my west-facing window.
The leafless skeleton of a cherry tree, yet to show any blossoms, stood rigid at the corner of the barn.
The outer walls of the barn were a faded and chipped pink; the original coat of vibrant red paint had long since decayed. The white trim hardly held as well, the sunbaked boards naked and exposed.
The tent flap opened slowly, oh so slowly. Slower than the trickle of honey. Slower than the hare that raced the bunny.
A summer breeze from the open screen door gently danced through the living room, and that, combined with the entertainment-center’s cool glass surface he was stretched out across, helped to sooth Rudy’s aching soul.