Snails in the drop and the black pot, from where nobody knows as it appeared one day with a mint leaf jammed between the handle and the lip, bubbles with a marshmallow looking skyward. Out from the depths of the boil and soft shimmer, the white molten folds fold over and in. Not enough to ball up into the snack which makes rival of an amputated leg. Sweet juicy morsel of meat as it is.
There are many ways in which to deal with bodies that lie about in the marsh and indeed, those that roast slowly in the ant scatter. A feast is but one, but one that serves the community as the needs of the few feed the needs and stomachs of the many. Many of whom choose only to be vegetarian in diet when the meat runs scarce.
Take too hardy on the supper and the depths of the bowels drag down a thought of despair and regret. Sand air and the kick of dust settle for night.
Turtles greet the morning new.
Written on Wednesday, 28 February 2007