Thirty steps to the river. Twenty-nine back to the scrub brush. I pull myself by the limbs, up into the canopy.
Eight weeks since the bombs fell and I ran. I ran. I ran. The water runs here, too. There’s safety in likeness, so I thought.
Two days since the khaki patrolman spotted me. He’d veered off their foot-torn path. I turned from the water, heard him too late. He only waved. His eyes were full.
The river draws us for different reasons. I go about mine. He goes about his.
No one’s come to cut him down. His boots still dangle in the grove, but I’m still running. Nine weeks. Running, run.
Current events have me in a dark mood.