Another flash. Bright. Quick. Then rain again. Night. A scoped rifle in his hands. He pulls his eye from the lens. Clears his head. It's context, he thinks. Why am I here? A sense of observation. Of himself. Internal escape. A word. Assassin. He is not himself. The rain still falls.
Ochre Idyls
Poems, Haiku/Tanka, Short Fictions