Life, or, Those Other Movies Never Made

There we are, at the bus stop. It’s raining weird pajamas 
and no one wants to talk. So, you do. You smile and you 
look away.  It’s loving. But really, we know the rules. At
what point do we make the call and color the road signs

black? No one mentions the wind anymore. It’s fucking     
brutal, is what it is. Yesterday I saw a gray hawk just give 
it all up and drop out of the sky like a feathered suitcase 
stuffed with rice. Sirens always remind me of when I cut

the town’s grass in parachute pants and a pair of white
wing tips. Questions were raised. We’re at the outpost,
the one in the Catskills, we’re going over the alternative 
access routes on the giant wall map behind the bar. No

one is thinking survival. You smile and you look away. 
I take a glance through the shutters and the trees begin
to move, first the birch and aspen, then the pitch pines 
and sugar maples. It’s strangely silent. I think of sirens. 

Jeffrey Little | (buzzing velvet drone)
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (20243)