Shot 1:
It starts with a close up of grass.
Its early, the sun hasn’t come up yet
Track shot moves up in slow walk. With purpose, emphatic. Without haste.
Observe the glistening dew on each blade.
Watch it weigh down the blades of grass,
Force them to lean and bend.
Notice the disarray. All blades pointing in directions of the dew’s choosing.
The grass abruptly ends.
Shot stops moving.
A pockmarked pavement.
The potholes of a longer winter
Not yet sewn up by the town.
Jagged like teeth
In a malformed palette.
Cracked,
Split in the little fissures from ice
and salt
and the scrape of winter’s grip.
It’s quiet.
Shot 2:
Broad shot.
Long, gravel driveway to a farmhouse, as sun sets. An old, prominent tree off to the right third of the shot. Radiant in the fading sunlight.
The house:
Beige Paint peeling. Window on the first floor, right side of the home, with wide gash in its pane.
Clapboard siding sagging on the opposite side in a dysfunctional patterning.
Camera begins to zoom.
The sound of the old porch’s settled wood creaking. An evening breeze only noticeable because the sun’s influence has cooled.
The sound of water dripping somewhere off of a worn gutter.
As the camera zooms to the front door. Slightly off of its hinges, an unfinished, cheap wood. The creaking sounds become more frequent, the wind’s squeals more pronounced.
The creaks become the sound of sharp cracking.
Water drops are louder now.
Building in percussive power.
The sound of small animals rustling off camera.
Louder now.
The camera speeds up and reaches the door as a crack, longer and more pronounced, rings out.
Screen goes black.
Shot 3:
Black frame, the sound of squeaking bike pedaling begin to trickle in.
Light fades in. Mid-morning on a sunny day.
In the left third of shot: an older, prominent tree. Leaves brown in the colors of autumn.
Nothing moves on the tree.
The squeak of the bike tire rubbing the Frame of a bike.
The clicking of the spokes against a worn gear.
The tree does not move.
The leaves remain still.
The wind has gone away. Resting
Faintly, the sound of dull tapping.
The sound of gravel shifting.
The sound of the bike
The wail of the brakes meeting the wind’s return. Carrying the sharp, sudden hiss of travel interrupted.
Envelops the still action of the shot.
A cracking of wood. Once, twice, now in uncountable procession,
Descending into the sound of wood snapping and collapsing in. Creaking away from the confines of nails and wood glue. A structure rendering itself as rubble. A return to modest origins.
The screen goes black. The wind’s shrieking is heard and a slow fade in of footfall on gravel is heard before silence.
