Sat outside a moment in the dusk of an overcast spring evening. Silent save for the peepers and so still without a wisp of breeze. Turning green even as I watch it. Peach blossoms pink and popping out along the slender branches. So different than the scene this morning with the whoosh of feathers and a dozen different songs sung from each balcony of the church. So different from McCarthy’s world and yet I tried to imagine it as dust and grey of ash with black arms of dead trees reaching out for help.
But there are hints of what The Road reveals; a squirrel that worries me because he climbs the pole and pokes his head into the bluebird box. I’m thinking grease slathered on a wide ring around the bottom. I give it up when I see the birds take care of him themself.
He limps away. Much like the few encountered on McCarthy’s Road.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology