Creek Running North

This morning, frost delineated each vein in each grass blade. Dead plane tree leaves scuttled across the park like Prufrock’s ragged claws. Zeke’s breath steamed.

Framed in rimed plane tree leaves, a mourning dove’s left wing lay palm up. The grass frost had melted away just a quarter inch from its margins, a perfect drop-shadow. A chain of bone, humerus and scapula, emerged from the wing and bore a bright red bead aloft.

A perfect image, and an evolving one: a bright, happy dog put foot on phalanges. The snap of bone echoed. What a cacophony of smell it must have been! I pulled him off the wing. He forgot it within seconds.