…

The water is very cold. Ten miles upstream, it’s still snow. For a while, it hurts to stand and look at the trees, but he thinks about her and how this will keep him clear and even for a while. He thinks about his secrets, about ice and time and green. Before long, he’s used to the cold.

He knows all his thoughts are true, that his memories don’t lie. There are lies and twisted arcs of distance in the reasons for killing, but the blood was real. And that’s all the same color; the color not found in water or rocks, moss, bark or needles of the trees. Let that color be only found in flags, he thinks, stepping in and searching for a place to stand. So many stones, it’s hard to find a place that’s not too slick.

…

He wonders if the jay has someone to love, maybe remembers chicks to be fed and crows – come up from the valley to escape the heat like him – to be chased from the nest. Crows are murderous, he thinks, and chuckles to himself. Meaning one man’s love is another man’s lamb on hot coals, with corn on the cob and singed hair. But everything needs half a chance to live and grow. Now why is she yelling about the meat, overcooked, undone? Dragged off by that crazy dog when his back was turned a moment, and the car came from nowhere. Nothing to be done for it now, except to keep the children close.

…

In time, his forgetting is complete. No lambs bleating, no people, no street. Just water that was snow, and rocks that are time. There is no awning above them of unfortunate human blue. Just the sunlight through the needles of the trees, which fall and float away or cover the trail, where he goes barefoot back to his car. And a cardinal of brilliant, boastful red, that stands on a branch and turns to watch him go.

© 2005 by Kyle Kimberlin

all rights reserved