An insect crawled slowly down the trunk of a big birch tree; pass sap and branches and eternity. The insect has a name but the insect doesn’t know it. It doesn’t even know it’s an insect. It just knows it has to move its leg-like things – and they’re only leg-like things in the dullness of our imagination – and get down to the ground, next to mile marker 29.
The radio played the latest British rock group. He was always bad with names. She sat next to him in a yellow and red sundress whose colors would never go together except on her. His 82 shit-brown Datsun 280z sputtered along carefree, like the road would gently unwind forever. The trees were lush and alive and cast a dappled, hypnotizing shadow upon the freckled landscape. Everything was fine, next to mile marker 29.
The car didn’t even brake. Little weasel eyes looked up and saw little weasel death. A crow was overhead but didn’t squawk and didn’t sing. Just looked on sagely. Crows don’t sing. Another car came along; its tires turned what was left of the weasel into a Jackson Pollack painting. It remained there forever, less and less so though, next to mile marker 29.
This one is for Orion… thanks for the hikes!