Willow
The wind moans, as it runs through the tiny leaves of the lonely tree. Like river water running through your knees on a hot July afternoon along the Russian River. The smell of the minerals in the clear water, mixed with the dirt-clouds kicked up by your best bud a few feet away — rising into your nostrils, forming the blackest of boogers.
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You stick your finger up your right nostril, digging for that sutter’s gold. Only to claw off an old scab. Red sticky liquid starts to run down over your lips, forming a droplet on your chin. Pinching it now, you feel all the sticky goop sticking to the insides of your nose cartilage. Smells like blood.
A few miles off of the northern tip of Oahu, you’re overwhelmed by the rocking of a boat. The rusty cage hangs in the water.
