Friday, March 5, 2010

Red Clay Running

So I was driving home from the barn today, heading south on 57, and this clump of red clay runs across the road, leaving this diaphanous cloud of dust in its wake. The clump of clay ran up on the wild weedy bank and as I got closer I slowed down, cause its not every day that you see dirt running. The unmolded terra cotta pot stood up and watched me go by with the beadiest black eyes—eyes that reminded me of the hundreds of soft shell crabs whose india ink eyes I plucked out in a seafood kitchen years ago. The red sod turned out to be a whistle pig, a ground hog. He resembled an indian in full war paint. He looked angry and ready for a tussle; his fine fur coat was plastered and hardened with clay, spiked like a punker dog on a Saturday night in a bad tattoo parlor. As I drove past, he turned his earthen back to me and continued into the briars—the meanest looking rodent I ever seen.

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