Apocalypse, How

Nearly everyone pointed a camera at the sky, or through the window, between tree limbs. Lots of them knew full well they should have run hard, but couldn’t. The slow mud road was littered most stretches (any place with a view) with burned-off runners, with idiot leavings. Les, though, she stayed. She was oblivious in her rank olive sleeping bag, her sagging tent just lee-side of the felled willow before Belle island proper. She was camped pretty much right on the milkweed bank of that souped-up canal, had been for four months now, and penned in is how it felt, limited in her movements by an ominous couple of osprey and a dropped-off stroller, the smell all about her and every minute of wet firewood and hot dry mourning.