I seen a varmint the other day, dead and pretty mean tore up underneath a bush. The sunlight hit it just so, flitting through all the leaves and flowers, lovely pink flowers that had shed a blanket of pink on the mess. Something about it struck me as pretty, like Mother Nature herself had ordered a tiny funeral for the poor thing.

The image plagued me all that day, haunted me, maybe on account of me being called a varmint, amont worse things, on more than several occasions. There was time when I had hopes, dreams, and whatnot. Any more, my aspirations for the future amounted to little more than that small animal had, a dramatic end to life and a peaceful, lovely resting place. Flowers would be nice too, I suppose.

An angry sunset stared me down at the close of that day, many miles away from that spot and more than likely a thousand miles from any spot for me. I said to myself I could walk on or just lay down and die where I was.

There weren’t any flowers on hand, so I just kept walking.