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July 31, 2007

From The Comments: Misch

The six-shooters are hot and heavy, weighing me down by the hips.

There's a stone in my boot that I can't find, no matter how many times I stop to get it out. It's pressing into the fleshy part of my foot where the muscles meet, on its way to my instep.

A strangled cry from above reminds me that the buzzards have been circling for two days. Besides me they're the only movement under the big dome of sky. Soon it'll just be them and their cowboy al fresco.

That's the last time I trust travelling horse salesmen.

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