A woman sits at a bus stop, she has a little tired bag beside her, on the ground. They are both worn, from the inside out. She picks up the bag, stands up, and begins running, backwards…
A small town, a town of heather, and wheat. A town with dirt roads like desert snakes, winding, in between fields of sugar, burning. A truck weighed down with stems dripping passes and a man yells something unheard out the window, he looks ravenous as he leans, and the truck slows almost to a stop as he feeds. His tongue like a serpent searching for a cave. Her feet continue, backwards, as does the truck wheels, rewind, dragging the path back to before.
She cuts back through a field, running over grass stems returning them to the stance that came before her stepping, before her running, back. Towards a little yellow house and the screen door that opened as she disappeared behind its closing, or should I say, to before its opening.
