A few clean, dry bones sunned themselves, but matted fur covered most of the skeleton, whose head was notably absent. The paws and tail, retaining an unsettling taxidermied quality, jutted out from the heap of hair. A large hole, perhaps originally from the killing bite, teemed with activity; diminuative ants were running in and out.
“What are those yellow pieces they’re carrying? Hwwrrrghhh!” John pointed, pretending to heave.
“Body fat?” I thought of coffin wax. “It’s been dead at least a week. You’d die if you stuck that whole thing in your mouth.”
“Hell no!” John exclaims, and heaves even louder.
We played delicately, fingers trying to be as light as the thousands of tiny tips of legs over the spoils of nature’s indifference, swaying between e minor and g major, mortality and sadness, acceptance and admiration, as death’s small ugly mess pulses once more with life before vanishing into the ceaseless elements, rubbed permanently from the world’s consciousness, if not for the experience we had and the video we made, which will also someday degrade, when the last backup fails and we ourselves have strayed far off the paper trails into the langoliering past; art isn’t life, but its epitaph.