When the day is young and soft-skulled, Rick covers himself in thick clothes and drops to his hands and knees. He heads out, wild as a schnauzer pup. The screen door breathes heavy behind him.
Think of this as the fibered thistle that comes from fallen trees, the softening rot. Think of this as the leaves that time has made into skeletons fine enough to sift flour. Think of this as air that bites at your heels and burns your cheeks with a bitter fire.
Rick doesn't think of any of those things. He has his nose to the ground, his eyes like magnets to the horizon. In him is the trill of revenge. He's ravenous for the people and for the places, and the live wire of living that he's bumped up against too many times to count.
He can't afford weapons, so all he carries is an arsenal of want to set everything straight.
He does this day after day, every day, day in and day out. His knees and palms bleed and he refuses to dress them. There are no words for the pain, but the skin that neighbors his eyes has taken the shape of sparring ravines.
Once in a while, the sky turns the color of cement and it claps. He rolls to his back and stares up, drinking the clouds' icy blood.
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