Grief

Low-lifes, belly-crawled, serpentine through the aloe-flamed, thorn-scrub to torch the house on the River of Sundays. It flared, exploding in a fiery rainbow, prism’d on the glassy mudflats below. Grief is the screaming vervet, fist clenched over the peanuts of Life hidden in the pumpkin shell, chained to the island milkwood, mesmerized by the terrifying inferno … over the water