Voices on the Wind Open Theme
The call of the wild by Mark Vogel Morning blood has congealed on the alien mouth, on silver uniform hair, as if immediately after ticking life stopped, the last essential touches were arranged on the ill-defined creature that now functions as a silent lawn sculpture. Separated by this picture window, in another parallel world, a dead possum laying in the morning grass grins with color strangely drained away for this depleted vision. He is a humble unsure corpse incapable of flight. The trails he wore in neighborhood history are not yet eroded—for it takes time to erase what his actions have stamped real. Once, teeth exposed, he hissed in panic when I met him before the cat food bowl. I know well he and his kind were also at home around the dark barn, committing more than one grisly poultry murder. The cause of his death is unknown, probably the dogs eager for another toy, but we are not sorry this is his final visit. Living on the ridge far from town, we also know no carcass lingers for long. Already we anticipate flies and ants will arrive in hot afternoons to cart him home. Many creatures will digest the evidence of his life, which will re-emerge soon enough, in re-fashioned forms, alive with new fur.