necrophage ovenbird My animal soul, the part that remembers being furred and frantic, reaches the chrysanthemum glow of afternoon exhausted and reaching for sleep. I want to curl up on the floor, in that small square of sunshine, close my eyes and forget everything that’s chasing me. Weariness settles like the weight of the sky, all that gravity, everything I struggle to hold up against the tug of the earth’s core. Just let me sink, for a moment, into the arms of whatever time is made of. On the brink of sleep my limbs twitch and curl. Even in a place not so different from death I am running. There’s no rest for the wounded. Blood will call the scavengers and I’m not ready to be picked clean. But when I finally do find stasis, I hope the crows come first, dense black clouds of midnight with their voices like cracked pepper and their talons sharp enough to grasp the ghost I have become. 251023 what's it to you? who go blather from