So much death comes from our travels. Grim greasy spots and a smear of hair, enough to name the deceased only to type. Raccoons, possums, groundhogs, squirrels. Nameless vagabonds, their mother does not even mourn them. There near the Feed and Seed lay the north half of someone's German Shepherd just on the edge of the hiway--a red rag of raw hide wrung where a tail once wagged and strong legs frisked when the back door opened. How numb and callous of me, of all of us, to drive past, swerving slightly, in a hurry. The dog had a name. Later today in a black moment someone will find what is left of him and be undone.

Fragments ~ from Floyd