Alabaster

I watch from my window. It is April and the dogwood trees are beginning to flower. Two men, both in white, are transporting alabaster figures to my neighbor's yard. Only they don't stop at the house. The men, now miniature, round the pathway to a stream and small waterfall before reaching an entrance into the woods. They pause several times to wipe the sweat from their hands and brow, and to shift the weight of the statues to balance. I notice the neighbor's truck is gone, then look to the woods. The men have disappeared into the forest, white as blossoms on dogwood trees .