Flatbush ranch. In the bare wafer-board shack:
German pulp westerns, The Glass Bees by Ernst Jünger, interspersed with smut on the shelves of tenants past.
Man-made pond dyed a deep green to keep algae from blooming, escaped rabbits remembered by fur caught
in the chicken wire of their cages. Smartphone held high, Nick repeats a mating song with his Bird Calls app.
Be still, he says, and listen for the clack- clack, clack-clack. Spruce grouse will be on the forest bed, but taste
like the bitter red buds they’re named for. Ruffies, with their rumpled black necks, gorge themselves on clover.
I’m out of focus, feeling it again, a fugue I haven’t felt since I smoked Sage of the Diviners in undergrad,
lost a second summer to derealization and my first clean hard hat. The trees are a thick mesh screen,
the sky a steep slide to vertigo and I feel it’s best I shut my mouth rather than explain this, gun in hand.
Jared raises his twenty-two, takes a crack at another squirrel to sell to a man who makes keychains from their tails,
but misses high again. It’s almost noon. I let a hare off easy. We’re the renewed embodiment of that old debate:
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
