It is quite fruitful

It is quite fruitful to get controllably lost, at least lost in character, the appearance of a place that is lost. The train tracks heading east from Peachtree provided that today. These tracks that no auto bridges dare pass over, obscure, lacking the altitude necessary to catch the skyline, at times the turf is idyllic and yellow, at others the density and crisp infrastructure of a Morlock bastion, fearing not how it bombards the ground, choosing to unearth and pile rather than skim or cradle. Getting out of the comfort zones gives our hearts a chance to race, albeit around a track, but naturally nonetheless. The dead beaver, belly-up next to a smaller opossum, heads caved in and black, some sunning carcasses, rotting dry. The birds screamed all from the brush there, a peak to the heart. Was it all the birds of the southeast calling out in solid unison? Was it perhaps what could be pictured as a single giant bird, swollen up-curving belly heaving, stomping through the trees, the master, who had destroyed the head of the beaver with a click of a single fur-cloaked talon. Possibly driven back into the brush by the rising smoke of a hobo’s fire. This assertion of human presence, a most pathetic one unbeknownst to the master, as these humans, one having fed on rice the previous night, the other preparing to do so in the heat of the cooking fire just moments from then (what a parallel life we encounter when we venture where we are not welcome), as these two would certainly have fled directly up the embankment when the score of bird talons emerged from the woods. The space of the tracks left open then possibly until dusk when the twinkle of lights would show from the thrown open standpipes, and the Morlocks lay claim to the beaver body and the night.

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