From the sodden shores a black capped beast comes slinking. The waves hiss at his back glad to be rid of him. He is Tunnel and he comes from the bottom of something, the end of something, the abandoned and empty and all but dessicated place beyond the furthest place you can think of. A spring rain has fallen and all the world is as wet as he is. The dark fragrant earth gives way beneath his hooves as he mounts the steep hills beyond the grey beach. The trees beyond are dark, and there is a smell of death borne on a cold evening wind. Something rotting in the forest, a clouded eye, as yet unplucked by the crows, is staring sightless.
He does not see the corpse, does not search for it, does not avoid it. Into the shadows he delves, sliding into the evergreens and leaving the coast once more deserted.
Here beneath the trees the wind is broken, and the chill does not seep into his corded muscles. Trees wave their hands over him, a shaman’s blessing, a madman’s curse. In the dark he looks back, can still see the black water beyond the trees. He goes no further tonight, but waits here in the inky shadows, concealed by darkness and the fragrance of death.
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
as though we were drowning inside our hearts
