Dissatisfied mourners sang. Drums processed coming from somewhere. Slick commercial racketeers focused their attention to scene. Their hands green. One man’s face expressed nothing. Eyebrows raised, side glances became apparent. Killing reason. Likelihoods.  Dovetail grasps entailed the spectators. There was no blood streaming onto the grass, police were shot down though. The joked appeared on the side of the trees, taking a few branches and making them into twigs and using the leaves as good fuel. Entire collections gathered with knots that didn’t work. Their faces started to itch. The mourners continued to sing as a tidal wave of water washed them all away.

RIVER BED   12

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