Rainbows and butterflies

Lemonberry Shantyball. The nonsense words creep back into his head, sticking this way and that like a burr on his jacket. Sometimes they form into a shape or an idea. Other times the syllables knock around against each other, driven to a pulp of legato chortles; a languid, sonorous goulash. Goulash is a good word too. It makes a lot of wonderful shapes in your mouth. You can almost taste the word. It tastes nothing like a goulash, though. Surprising.

His mouth moves silently, stretching over the playful shapes and hiding a hint of smile. A bit of dust from the road kicks up until he can taste it on his tongue. It’s sour. The smile turns to a grimace but his legs don’t stop. The march continues.

Damp air reminds him of the river nearby, and to be watchful for slick rocks. Slowly, like a great behemoth set into motion after eons of corroded stillness, his eyes drift up from his feet and see his trail. He’s seen it before—rocks, trees, flora and insects—maybe not here exactly, but it’s all the same. The sun sprays its light across the verdant sea, callously optimistic in its glimmer, indifferent to precision or purpose, all-encompassing and definitive. A frame of trees—spruce or pine or some such weald—envelops a painting brought to life. Colors fall out of the sky and pour across the ground, highlighting every shrub and brush as if it were a quotation to be noted and studied. The vale is completely still but for the fluttering of the tiniest wings, flashes of bright yellow over indigo and violet. Pristine silence pounds the earth in altitonal crescendos, as if Peace were trying to punch him in the face. He’s seen it all before.

Eyes are spared a moments energy then fall back to rest in their place. The march continues. Lemonberry Shantyball wraps its delicate phonemes in transcendent colors as it wiggles its way back into his head.