Luz fria

On certain days, at a certain time, a certain light streams through the window that opens old wounds. It's cold and blue and unsympathetic.

A fish placed his hopes in the lure of a fisherman's hook and paid a dear price. Just a short time ago it swam in a quiet, gentle river flowing with clear water and warmed by the spring sun, abundant with life after the rains and far from peril. Or at least it seemed so. Now, after a lapse in judgment, it lies in tortuous rigor mortis, its gut split open by the hand of someone with a numb heart, its snout open, seeming to take the last gasp of life from an environment he no longer understands. Stupid fish.

Melancholy

A turkey buzzard soars around me, does it sense the death in me?