Driving down Maltby Road at some indeterminable midpoint between the
approaching dawn and the witching hour already past, which time I
briefly spent feigning civility at a drive through window to a girl who
was herself feigning dignity (both of us were failing miserably), my
dying iron horse came upon a dark, inert mass in the middle of the
road, it and my headlights colliding into each other abruptly like two
highwaymen in a Medieval wood. Scowling I slowed down a little and
jabbed at my steering wheel with my fist, not wishing an additional
entry of red numerals onto my karmic ledger, least of all from
something so trivial as a small mammal on it's perilous commute. No
motion. Turning my chapped lips further downward and off to the right I
loosed the restraints on morbid curiosity and allowed its weight to
rest on the brake pedal. My truck rolled to a stop just in front of it,
so that I couldn't see it past the hood, and muscling the recalcitrant
door open I walked over to the opossum or whatever in hell it was. The
wind in the trees in a copse off to the right a few hundred yards
chuckled softly at me suddenly as I lowered myself next to the lump of
fur in a dilettante coroner's squat.
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