His conversations with them are secure in the night. Far too late, far too cold for other eyes and ears to take notice, he’s always alone when the deer come walking out of the forest. The large doe, matriarch of the small herd, stops just at the edge of the trees, her eyes locked upon his still form, her ears pointed and searching. The glow of the end of his cigarette illuminates his face for a moment and he turns his head slowly, away from the doe, and exhales quickly.
Throwing the Bones
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