10-197
- joneworlds@mailbox.org

I got  done setting  the draw  pins about  6:30 or
something, and thought I'd better go check out the
scene before  supper.  I go  down the hill  by Dr.
Chin's fallow, and it's  like probably nine or ten
cruisers     there    already,     blocking    the
way. Blueberries and cherries everywhere.

These ones  are the  roughest for them.   It's all
over, that unease, tired  and traded between them,
over  and through.   Even they  can't get  used to
this.   And the  cones and  baffles and  tapes are
already up over it, but I  don't need to see it to
know: it's  happened again,  and it's a  weird one
this time.  The ministry won't send two principals
out  to these  sorry  sticks,  for nothing.   This
one's no leg-crawler.

And  them  two are  talking  to  the captain,  and
there's pointing  and there's gestures,  all that.
But she's  just listening.  This one  won't be her
deal. No way, it's gone beyond that.

And there's constables down crouching over it, and
some  on the  radio.  Crackle  bee-de-boo crackle.
Some  are looking  over shoulders,  hoping no  one
sees their thousand yards.

And it's evening, but still so goddamn hot like it
always  is  now, that  I  can  smell my  own  feet
stinking in my  loafers.  Or is that  the sap from
Chin's   oaks?    Something's  not   right   about
those. And the  crickets are out, but  not so many
as   once  there   was.   And   they  sound   off,
too. Brrr-eee.

It   gets   hard  to   put   a   finger  on   this
stuff. Floating dread. But  that on the road, that
dread's got  a name.   Guess I'll take  comfort in
that.