"My hands pulled out a rotted net of wet,
decayed fabric, blackened by dead leaves and mud, but still displaying its
almost obliterated pattern; a pattern that was all too familiar.
I shook it free from my hands and stared
back into the cleft: curving up against the humus and bark were three graceful
arcs, rising through the clustered stems of pale orchids; sinking back into the
ooze were long clean sticks, articulated into a line and now a highway for busy
white termites; staring out from the fallen and scattered leaves, disturbed by
the press of my face, were two black square holes, framed by tendrils of
rain-drenched hair...
The air was heavy with the eucalyptus
reek of fallen leaves, cut through with the smell of gardenias...
No comments:
Post a Comment