Deciduous Flesh

I looked over and saw R.’s profile superimposed on the moving backdrop of a boreal forest, somewhere around the state line of Indiana. I remember thinking the evergreen innocence of youth had been yanked away from him, and now his deciduous flesh would not survive the season. Yet, the light in his eye, the ever-present curl in the corner of his mouth, and the rakish tilt of his head all defied the drum of hooves galloping toward him from the darkness of the western lands, where the dead have their own dominion.

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