a limping raven the size of a god or the bird named for an umbrella, it was so large it must have been raining dogs. And speaking of which, there was a German Shepherd slinking around, looking for something to kill — must be the sign of the times.
But nothing was worse than the dream of my newly dead, beloved dog, and me picking up pads and towels with tiny drops of blood on them, like amateur Jackson Pollocks on a poor man's canvas, in a frenzy, like the ones, that are still outside, dotting the concrete across two patios. Seems I am always chasing death.
© 2026–present Cordelia Naumann. All rights reserved.