Jumping cake through the seeded grass stalks tufted towards the sullen skies. The rim of viper neon green encircles every clear outline: moon, sun, road sign, road, the face of that bare rock, the shop beyond. Trawling this glare through the township air is the fisherman, the washer at the ford, washing the clothes of the dead, soap and salt and ash.
Blended lay the charged feral husks, as the shaven ankles above the heavy hooves prove sinewed. The gaping sun falls back below the stage when yellow turns to amber, and thence to sackcloth, and the aforementioned ashes. While the fisher fans the measuring vessels in one hand, the other is lost in gloom – yet we will find it, with comb and laser and glass, we will, if our sandals slip not from the narrow, tufted rope.