It is winter– (simple sentence establishing time), early morning – time of day in the little- pre modified township – noun, chilled and black frosted, the plants and bushes stiffly frozen, the football field icy, the “trees carrying crystals” – (personification) of sharp ice up to the wet sodden “air-hugging mist.” – (listing)

Listen. – (command) It is morning quietly roving the main road – (personification early riser character), the moist melodic – (alliteration, calming effect) streaming mist rising over the garage and the schoolhouse.  It is grass shivering on the hill. – (metaphor, personification) Sunrise, dawn, the chorus of birds in the pine trees – (personification).

It is Sunday morning. The thin clear slants of sun echo back onto the thick mist – (Metaphor).  In the silver windowed house, the parents sleep heavy while three blanketed children toss and turn. In the workshop of the garage, Joe is up and in his practical oil-stained overalls is working on that ute that the farmer needs today.  Back in the house, the children now sit heavy-eyed around the wooden rectangular table.

And the toast burns as the jug boils.

“Hurry up kids – (imperative), we’ll be late,” Mum shouts, sharp tongued.  Washed and combed and brushed, families drive the short way to the little church on the hill.  Past the swamp where the dragonflies shimmer – (personification, metaphor) and hover in the morning sunlight.  Where the captured tadpoles would have grown into glazed green – (alliteration) slippery little frogs.

Look. On the hill behind the house the pine trees lift their heavy branches of sharp dense needles into the dwindling disappearing – (alliteration) time-now-over mist.  Down below in the township, the little general store opens its ready-for-anything doors to sell soap to biscuits, flour, tea towels, light bulbs and milk that will arrive later in the day carried for hours on the bus.

And soon you will be sitting on hard straight-backed wooden pews with no cushions.  The tiny white wooden church echoing with the sound of morning hymns, streaming out into the frosty but now sunstreaked morning.

ROOM 24:

The mottled light streams in through the symmetrically aligned curtains. The cries of the ridged desks scream out at every careless collision of a key pad. The free, snow caped mountains fill the windows like a picture.

The slow creak of the desk breaks my thoughts. The misleading white clock stares blankly back at me as I long for it to work faster.

The arduous hill forced the car to slither towards the swamped school.