snapshots .&. cameras shoot sound catching the escaping 050111 ... .&. catching sound the cameras shoot escaping 050111 ... .&. the cameras shoot catching sound escaping 050111 ... .&. the cameras escaping shoot sound catching 050111 ... .&. escaping sound the cameras shoot catching 050111 ... .&. the escaping sound cameras shoot catching 050111 ... .&. shoot the cameras catching sound escaping 050111 ... .&. cameras shoot sound catching the escaping 050111 ... .&. cameras shoot, catching the escaping sound 050112 ... .&. cameras shoot, catching the sound escaping 050112 ... ovenbird Two men, faces still creased from the sheets of their childhood beds, pick blackberries while thorns pull at their pant legs. “I try,” says the younger, “But we have a strange relationship.” The older nods, stains his teeth purple, picks at the loose threads hanging from the hem of his shirt. The river runs fast after last night’s rain and the sun is missing from the sky. Something shattered its light and spilled it onto the earth. The path is strewn with bright yellow buttons. They get caught in the treads of bicycle tires, which crunch over the gravel. “What kind of dog is he?” a small voice calls, but when I turn to answer there’s no one there. When I reach the water dish it’s full of dirt and the drowned bodies of woodlice. Back towards the west we go, dusty feet, dusty paws, and two smokey voices in my ear. There are too many oranges, but nevermind, they can give them away. My bed is ready and waiting. It’s cool enough for a long sleeved shirt. We’ll have to get used to the heat in the place we’re going. We can show the kids the high school. We can go to the pool. Everything is close and far away. But the blackberries are ripe, and that has to count for something. 260717 what's it to you? who go blather from