Cursing Mantis

Once a month he made the drive to visit his parents. Usually on a Sunday. His mother liked him to go to church with her, so he rose before dawn. He stood in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, looking out the window and wondering how far Mr. Smallwood had progressed.

The dirt road curved out over blind turns, each holding some hidden trailer or dilapidated home tucked away behind the trees like guarded fortresses aged and forgotten in their self-imposed isolation.

By the time he reached the feed barn it was a little after six in the morning. He put the wheelbarrow under the shoot and pulled the chain releasing a deafening stream of pellets that fell in a dust cloud which smelled of molasses and grass.

He sat staring into the coffee watching small vines of oil with pale gray leaves of steam swirl into existence within the stained porcelain wall of the cup before blowing off the surface in gossamer threads that disappeared in the air.