Stare Death in the Snout
It only lasts a split-second. A flash of something that couldn’t be. What nature so patiently assembled, so hastily disassembled by the thump of a bumper. Legs don’t belong there. Heads aren’t meant to turn that way. The vultures hop a little as you pass, then return to their hooked pickings. This is their house. You’re just passing through.
