February 10 Man's body found in undergrowth near major road

There are no birds here.

As rescue party becomes recovery becomes a wake, we walk, and trudge, our backs aching from the extra weight, the earth hungry to hold onto our feet for longer each step. A gun metal sky shoots rain like nails pricking any sliver of skin not covered up, contrails misdirect us back to the beginning, and voices sink in the slosh and squelch of boot and mud.

Less now than before, we mark the moment in grunts and breaths, the path leads us through a drum of circular sound, washing us clear of feeling, of registering what we knew, to allow us to continue.

There are no accidents here, no meanings nor wisdom to be gained, it’s just ugly and inevitable and waiting to pull you down. We who know how to forget will survive, those that can’t, will stay here.

Who will break the news, lower the noose, choose to lose, and will anyone come to find them when the day is done?

We stop


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