Dead Wood

Dusk is falling. As it has been all day. Overhead hangs one of those grey snow skies that seems to descend ever further. In the misty atmosphere, the forest is no more than a collection of leafless trunks and branches that point aghast in all directions. It refuses to get dark, though the light seems to be departing constantly. A man staggers onward. In the tangle of trunks, there is barely a path to follow. Sometimes his hand swings out because he loses his balance and almost falls. Sometimes he reaches into the plastic bag in his other hand and scatters thick seeds around himself in wide, sweeping motions. He is off balance more often than he scatters. The seeds ricochet loudly against the trunks before they fall to the ground. Aside from his faint panting, it is the only sound. He hasn't seen a human being in days. Yet some have been here. He is sure of it. Their bodies, their cheering, and their sweating have disappeared, but you can feel that they were there. The impressions…