Photography And Half-Thoughts By Mitchell Hegman

...because some of it is pretty and some of it is not.

Saturday, December 3, 2016

The Rising Dead

Death had no edge then.  We crumpled exquisitely in well-tended grass and dandelions and lay still as silverware in a closed drawer.  Our stick rifles and willow switch swords strewn about us.
The smelter shift whistle cried over us. Our fathers at work.
Someone’s fuzzy dog licked the fallen general.  A car honked from Main Street.
At once, we rose from the dead and ran home for macaroni and cheese.

--Mitchell Hegman

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