#41 Iron&Wine Chronicles: Bird Stealing Bread

The boy moves in the dark. Quick at first, then almost imperceptive once he reaches the dumpster. The red eye of a wall-mounted camera blinks. He waits, listens, and vaults over the wall, landing among the trash. He squats still and listening. All clear. So he rips into the big black trashbags, quiet as a bird.

Two nights ago he found half a dozen quarter-pounders and a basketfull of fries. Still warm. That was a good night. They ate like kings beneath the overpass, each passing around a tallboy of rotgut beer. One kid raised the can and proposed a toast. –To Bird! Somehow seems to always bring the feast. But how about some ketchup next time? All laughed in the shadows.

Last night he made noise and barely got out unseen and emptyhanded. Tonight there is nothing but a few packages of expired buns. At least they’ll eat something.

#40 Iron&Wine Chronicles: Lovesong of the Buzzard

The man crawls across the desert. Six days since the horse broke leg and tossed him in a dry ravine. The outpost was another six walking, and the canteen empty last Thursday, or so he guessed.

He hobbles, then stumbles, then crawls. A man aging forty years in half a week. The sun beats with infinite fuel, ceasing only for the night, when everything living comes and eats the only fool moving in the sand.

He had a map, but used it to clean his ass after tearing it up in frustration.

Now water was a word not formable with his mouth, dry as it was. Parched impossible to speak.  He reaches again, fingers spangled with dry cholla spines. His denimed legs tattered and ragged and all but gone.

A birdcall, then another. And more.  So he falls asleep, the lovesong of the buzzard barely registering in his crispy ears.