A kind of thrill—to lie on a road and flatten yourself, white fur like a ball of winter, like the March blossoms on the fruit trees, each one folded in like the fledgling that never made it from the nest. They do this when they feel threatened, remain motionless even when curious people come prod them with sticks, stiffening their pearly claws as a tree stiffens its twigs for winter. What is it to be dead? The possums know—that eternal watchfulness by which the dead in their stately wisdom watch us who keep moving. Copyright © 2017 Sheila Black. Used with permission of the author. |
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