Fog almost lifted. I walked into the small busy post office, stood in a cold line with the other interrupted lunchers. My mangled carcass washed down the hillside in the spring floods. The line moved slowly, so I read all the posters about new stamps and wanted criminals. Carried by mud, I rolled over manzanita, then was caught in a Doug Fir's roots. The cranberry woman ahead of me caughed into her stack of letters. Grackels dropped from the limbs and feasted on my eyes and tongue. The sandalwood hippy behind me caughed too, and the line inched forward. Squirrels happily nibbled on my arms; a raccoon came for my liver. Just in front of the counter, a carriaged baby suddenly, obviously needed a new diaper. A coyote scattered the midsize scavengers; she gnawed on my thighs while ants surveyed the feast. By the time I'd reached the flabby postmaster and bought my sheet of international stamps and IRCs, I was already late. Various rodents chawed on the remaining chunks of grey flesh. My boss glared at me as I returned to my desk. The ants had me picked clean by the equinox. The fog lowered again.(C)opyright 1995 by OTRSS
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