The house was alive, squirrels scampered about, there were beetles in the knee-high grass, sharp thorns embedded themselves in socks and leggings as they were waded through, root tendrils sprouted between the bricks, a sapling showed its green next to the chopped tree trunk, birds sang a raucous chorus at dawn. At dusk, fireflies flickered about in the dark patch of mango trees, the grape vine had twisted itself around the guava tree, shading the stone bench below. Trees shed leaves and with the breeze they were dragged across the stone pathway, making large piles near the walls where the fruit laden tree branches hung low.
The large leaves in the banana grove turned yellow. Walking up to it, looking at the large bunches of fruit, one would step on the wild mint bushes and the crushed leaves would give off a strong aroma. In the evenings, a strong wind grew and the mangoes thudded down, in quick succession on the bed of dried leaves. Angry bees swarmed around the ripe fruit.
Thick creepers grew up the tree trunks and one had to shade the eyes just following their progress to the crown of the tall trees. The trees spread over half of the roof, the dripping sound from a leaky water tank not heard above the rustle of the leaves.
The mud floor of a half finished room was green with the moss, treacherous to walk on. The dog wandered in, once in a while, sniffing about, raising dust as sunlight slanted in from a missing brick high up in the outer wall.
There were whispers of ‘haunted’ whenever people walked through the fields, nearing the house, looking for a shorter route to their own houses.
This post is part of Blogchatter’s My Friend Alexa.