Time Lapse

Chickens out back. Also ducks. Clothesline in constant use. Bed sheets, boxer shorts, aprons. Subsequently, towels and blouses and bedding, but only occasionally. Then nothing. Two vehicles then parked in a now car-less driveway. There for twenty-five seconds—a Ford truck, a Dodge sedan. Later only the Dodge. Then nothing. Gravel from the drive spreads. Pancaked across the front lawn. The clothesline is gone now, except for a pair of rusted metal stumps. An old tractor in its place, rusted too, surrounded by hip-high grass in mid-summer. It is August. It is January. Everything covered gloriously in snow yet part of the same masquerade. Knee-high drifts vanish. Whiteness becomes gray, then brown. Tires on the tractor, wet and black, go flat. Sun, rain, clouds, rain. Everywhere there is water. Wind and mud. The roofline runs north. And this explains the location of the clothesline, which was on the south side of the house and not out back where the ducks and chickens were, mere seconds ago. A few shingles go missing. Then more. Then a lot more. Then a full section of the roof is revealed, below the chimney, which slouches now, tilting and buckled. The lower bricks have gone as black as tar. Things go missing. Nothing happens but things have been moved. Flashing exposed. Gutters slump. A deer gorges at dusk on rich grass at the edge of the woods. September, October, November. A herd moves swiftly across fresh snow in winter. It is springtime again. A stack of pallets and broken-up concrete have been dumped on the north side. Leaves are gone. Deer behind the house, under a bare black oak. Gunshots in the distance. Light snow is converting to sleet. Cedars have fallen. An old treehouse is visible now in the woods. It mirrors the house in terms of condition, and in its falling-down state, it resembles a deer stand, in which no hunter takes a position. Leaves return. An adult fox sprints across the lawn, a red flash, vernal and robust. No rain for fifteen seconds. Grass goes brown. Then green grass. Then high grass. Blue sky. Grey skies. Late summer, Christmastide, Maytime. A young fox stomps on something in the fescue. Young Fox bounces. Hops like a frog. The sound of frogs from wetlands, deep behind the house. Antenna disappears from the roof. Things go away. Things go quietly awry. The screen door is unhinged, then departs altogether. Front window boarded up. Four deer. Three. One solo deer, again at the edge of the woods. Hawk on the roof, at the apex. Lawn as hunting ground. Lawn as meadow. Same grass and flowers as those that appear along highways and parkways, in abundance. They arrive in glory, all on their own. Wind, seed, sun, rain. Burdock. Buttercups. Queen Anne’s lace. A for-sale-by-owner sign appears. Then it’s gone. Almost as fast. Five seconds tops. No sale. Someone mowed the property again. The tractor is gone. And the pallets too. Things have been moved around. Changes have been made but they’re imperceptible or happen too fast, which is the same thing. Heavy snow in time-lapse melts posthaste but the long winter is indeed long, even though quickly it is over. Mud follows. Dries up. More mud. Summer. Autumn. Dead leaves. Buds arrive. Lightning. Wind. The plywood that had been covering the front window has landed on a bush near the front steps, which are crumbling now, slanting and slipping. Snow covers the plywood, which now shelters the bush and the ground underneath. The whole property is slipping and slanting. Gravel takes a different shape on the lawn. Deer return. Fescue and flowers return, then all retreat and then all return. Spring, summer, fall. The plywood leans against the house now. Other windows are broken. No one’s been here for several minutes. Once again, they’ve given up. The roof is a tar-paper roof. Young Fox has reappeared. It can’t be Young Fox but a young fox. Nevertheless, she is sitting on the front step, alert and proud. She’s saying to the anonymous viewers, I live here. And she does live here. Then she’s gone, in a blip.