o45

On a corner lot a post jutted from the ground, grown there over an age or maybe pinned instead, by a giant with big thumbs. In the air above a storm rose, as if from the detritus of the earth, a swirling vortex of dust and spent life. Into and out of the wind in a cacophony of peals and bangs, the hammers of lesser gods plied their trade and constructed a machine. A rolling quake evolved and spread out wide changing the periphery from gray to purple and red, and a resounding boom fell out, falling falling, and met the earth, which gave and cradled its gift from the lesser gods. Then, with a purr the construct pooted and caught on a gear, settled into its rut, and sighed. The clouds in a fit of entropy flung out tendrils of inept wrenches, then dissipated into a calm vapor; and faded to impotent memory.