Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Something says, "Don't Touch"

Ever glance up from your plate at a restaurant and catch the fella's eye a couple tables away? Ever wish you hadn't locked eyes, wished you blinked a little faster. Something's not quite right with him. You hope to leave after you see his car pull out of the lot. 


Once a little beat up car cut us off on the highway. I was annoyed. They came far to close. We pulled along side them. I rolled down the window. My face was contorted in a scowl. My mouth was opened to say... and then I looked into the driver's eyes. They were cold, dead eyes. The passengers gazed forward in a trance. I rolled the window up and faced forward. I promised I'd never confront another driver on the road.


We walked along the South Branch. It was an invaded trail. Weeds everywhere. The smell of rotten popcorn was in the air - poison hemlock flowers. My son, about 6 months old then, was in the Baby Bjorn. Don't touch anything. The stems of the plant looked bloody, as though warning, this is what I do to your insides. 

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