Hang Low

Rotten old deer stand isn’t much use to you. But I can use it to overlook the world of feral fields, where wildlife keeps the woods from reclaiming. Ancient forests form natural meadows, breaks in the brush where creatures congregate. This land of clearcuts and young growth doesn’t have much of that, but it’s got plenty in the way of civilization gone to seed. Former farms too small to tend for modern crops; one-time sources of subsistence that could never bring a present profit. It’s moments from raining, so I’ll be brief, walking where the wet grass waits on more moisture. Ticks in their thousands hang low, legs outstretched like thumbs raised for a ride. They never have to wait too long. Some passing hair or fur pulls by for a pickup. Little do they know that their hitchhiker has murder on its mind.

May 10, 2026
Beaconsfield, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6755 of my daily journal.