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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