Art critics II

Standing up here one can see for hundreds of miles. A shimmering haze blends sky to land. Reptiles hide.

The sun is at its highest, searing down intense heat, blasting stubbles of grass into dry blades. No sound, except the click-click. Click-click! Click-click! Click-click! Chattering insects talk of visions here. A single blackened tree erupts motionless from the ground. No leaves, no life, prey for creatures’ adapted to rough surfaces devoid of any moisture. How is appears so, safe.

Underneath twisted fingers of shade lies a carcass. Sunken grey hide draped across protruding white bones, lifeless and still. As seems this hot land. The smell. Burgundy and entrails.

The first, and always the first, to arrive are the flies. Smelling death they sense a feast; tiny portions provide enough fuel for inquisitive beating wings. Opportunity and necessity favour the fly. Until the next sorry soul abandons reason they remain; crawling, sucking, around and around again.

Theirs may not be a time recognisable to you, or I. They exist in spite of the quickest flicks of an eye.


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