angelic

I saw a dead rabbit in the rain that day. I stopped in my walk. Abrupt. The pink of open flesh stood stark against the brown ground. Its neck torn open. By teeth? But it was too perfect, so a knife, maybe? Who left it there, throat slit, on the trail by the water? In this small town. On the path bordered by tall grass. A square of scrub sat on one part of the trail, a strange angle annexed into the cropped grass, full of low cactuses in a perfect grid. A gate sat at either end of the trail — a small lot at the start, a thin beach at the other. There was always a random lawn chair left there to use. Someone cobbled a bench out of drift wood against the fence, beach side. In the summer, the small cove would fill with floating docks extended out into the marina. In the winter, the pylons jutted from the water in sentry rows. The sun had just started setting that day. You know the way it does, when it just brushes against the hilltops across the harbor and the clouds swollen grey clumped across the sky, hanging heavy and low, orange limned, the sky washed out pale white—early evening colors. There were a few sailboats stilled moored even late in the season, their masts caught the last vestiges: aluminum glinted, stained wood glowed. The grey roof of the caretaker's cottage turned yellow. Then there was the rabbit— Pink flesh and coarse fur. Black eye and black blood.