Ohio is feeling old but still hunts on bright nights. I collected her prizes and hung them in the tree of death. Her larder swings with stiff winds and drips with memories of once plump Opossum civilians who should have chosen the road not taken. Still needle-toothed skulls leer down at Ohio with a mocking sass. No knowledge that it’s a little late for such bravado.
Posted by hugh email@example.com