It Might Finally Come to Fruition

A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
There across the field is a little squirrel pouncing here and there. His eyes dart back and forth has he secretly buries his treasures in the ground. He hops merrily and carefree from one shaded area to another. But it is not the squirrel we have come to see today. From the squirrel our eyes dart up the tall oak tree on the right, where many a day our antagonist has spent lazy summer afternoons drinking ice cold lemonade while reading about his favorite adventurer Captain Frost, the legendary buccaneer and all around jovial and nice guy. Paul would spend all afternoon reading those swash-buckling novellas as the condensation sweat over the pages. This tree that we are looking at has been there for as long as he can remember. It was under this very tree where he captured his first kiss from Rebecca Deirsing, the little cherry blossom who lived down the street. Along the trunk are many knots and messages carved from the same once little boy. But where is our little boy of long ago? For that we must move up along the branches and take a seat upon the back of a robin who is about to take flight. A little red robin went bob-bob-bobbin along the wind. The robin begins to travel north along highway 37 and we go along with it. We jump ship along a telephone wire when the bird hits the 89 junction. Do not worry; the wires cannot hurt us because we are made of nothing that the wires can hurt. No, we are just viewers here. We are just here to witness the events that are about to unfold before us. Hurriedly we travel along those black wires that buzz with fury on this hot August afternoon, for we have somewhere we have to be quite soon.
Why these wires buzz as they never have in this small Midwestern town, we’ll ask our hero Paul Ryder later. He now sits within his office, answering many of the phone calls that are plaguing the very lines we are on. A disturbance of utter horror has shocked this little town of New Brockford. And at the police station of which Officer Ryder is employed, the phone calls don’t seem to be slowing anytime soon. But before we go there, let us make one final stop. We jump from the phone line onto a fast moving semi heading right on 145. We see a taupe sea of summer grass leaning right as the semi breezes by. When we pass by a thin wooded area, by mile marker nine, we jump off.
Amongst these trees lies a streambed, which brings water to nearby fields when there’s rain. When we our eyes happen to drift downward to the mud cracked floor, which is littered sparsely with jagged limestone rocks, we see an awful sight. There before us lies the remains of a once crimson haired little girl who now sleeps forevermore. By the looks of her she has been dead for years. Her yellow bleached bones have almost been swallowed completely by the seasonal dried up mud. Maybe in a few more summers, she will be covered completely, but till then she still grins acceptingly before us as she gruesomely sings her sad mysterious song.
No motion has she now, no force:
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees. -Wordsworth