an ugly red smear
two wary shadows unfurl
spill black in the air
Two crows skulking over crushed roadkill, staking each other out, floating at each other in a non-violent contest. The sky was grey, the rain was falling. I didn’t get to see who won, who broke first. I drove on. Little dramas of nature are all around us. We (sometimes) only get a tiny window into them, it allows us to apply our own comprehension and fiction. It might have had nothing to do with what I’ve written of course, but it just goes to show, what does “truth” actually mean? I guess historians ask themselves this question, or I hope they do. I wont debate it, as I’m not clever enough to philosophise!
