God of the Doorway

She finds the only sliver of sunlight illuminating my room and curls up in it. White fur reflecting rays back at the window. Mom went out to feed the big dog and came back cringing about a rat lying lifeless on the concrete floor. The rat was stretched out in the sunlight; birds singing outside the half open garage door while leaves shook off the damp night air.

I scooped the sleeping rodent onto a shovel and shuffled out into the woods. Dug a shallow grave, roots sticking up through the dry forest loam.

Went back inside, made a bowl of oatmeal and sat on my rocker, watching dust particles spin and twirl in the late morning light.


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