I Gather the Dust

Rat Shit rolled across the carpet and sung he his song: “I gather the dust. I gather the dust.”

In the corner, building a black boat from bamboo and epoxy, whispering praise to the lines radiating cross-ways from his project, Lewis grunted his acknowledgement of Rat Shit’s antics without looking upon the rotten heap of a man.

“I gather the dust.”

The boat would be finished by morning. Lewis would be take it for a test float as the sun rose above the red cliffs of the gorge. The sunlight would strengthen him, blood and boat. When he returned for his midday snack, Rat Shit would be silent (as he was when the sun spoke its most powerful words.)

“I gather the dust.”

And silently then would he be loaded into the boat and sent down the river to find a wife. Or a wolf’s mouth.

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