That Day

It was that day. The day the sun sat low and refused to rise but flexed bows and slung arrows that pierced your eyes. The trail buried in shadows. New black top was soft beneath my feet and the trail snaked and followed the same course as the river. The river was high and slow. And there it was. Scratched in the path, dusty blue chalk, Eddie Atwood killed me.

But it was only further down the road that I found the body. Asleep, slumped across the picnic table. Except for the ants and the snail that clung to his ear and the fact that his eyes were pecked clean and the crows bouncing on the red cedar branches that hung low above the table. Not even afraid of me.

Then the crunch of leaves beneath a boot in the direction of the river bank, not unlike the sound of potato chips…crushed in your palm.


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