While traipsing along a county road in Small Town Amërïkä, searching the ditches for aluminum cans and scraps of enlightenment, I encountered The Reaper and The Executioner perched upon a fence, discussing the grisly business of life, death and gourmet roadkill. Like a couple of small town lawyers waiting for a drunk driving case, a custody battle or a personal injury accident, they're drawn to the sight of blood and the pungent smell of radiator fluid on hot asphalt. They scour the back roads searching for hose clamps and the mangled corpses of careless night wanderers.
Death is a usurper, the ethereal absence of life. Death is a portal. Death is a coward. As I approached them they took flight on large, cumbersome wings, their grimacing faces flecked with dried blood.
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"
is Jesus in the mailbox Hermit? just sayin' walking the dogs tonight i found a triumph headlamp nacelle in the hedge bottom, do you think it's some sort of sign?
ReplyDeleteJust a backslidden sinner washed in the blood, Loveless.
DeleteHeadlight nacelle? Definitely a message there. I'm lucky to find beer cans and bungee straps. If you and the terriers find the rest of the bike, we're talking full-on miracle.
Sittin' on the fence of the day
ReplyDeleteWatching that truuuuck hit a stray
300 miles I've flown, just to make this fence my home
Caw caw Caw Caw-ca, Ca-Caw Caw Caw Caw-Ca
-Crowtis Deading
Them be vultures Laura, but a nice ditty nonetheless.
DeleteThanks, I seriously thought they were crows. I'm no birdologist obviously.
DeleteHate it when I miss significant posts, always an omen of ill portent.
ReplyDelete"Careful with that ax, Eugene..."
ReplyDeletePink Floyd?
DeleteThe pinkest...
ReplyDelete