Pease River

He watched what was left of the day through the front window. The brain like oak tree held the first stars in its black wickerwork. The storm earlier in the day rolled before him the full gospel of falling skies in the rain thick river. He watched a coyote sniff the far riverbank and look towards him. He pulled his boots on and grabbed the truck keys from the hook next to the cabin door. Mariah had been in the ground a week now and there was nothing to be done about it.

Time spent in the mind wasn’t good time. He knew that.

The parlous ride into town. The cluster of trucks nursing around the flat low tavern by the stock yards. His Dad’s truck was in the thick of them. That was one way not to deal with things.

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