PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields
‘Sing to me?’ he said.
I stirred the pot, the clumped stew with the stringy jackrabbit I’d snared the night before. Piercing him with squint eyes, I said, ‘Sing to you? I ain’t your mother.’
I’d swaddled him in a blanket, propped him against an old pinyon pine overlooking the valley. His chest rattled, the once broad shoulders pared down, scrawny as the jackrabbit.
‘I’ll be gone by morning,’ he whispered, as calm as if observing the sky is up, smoke is black.
Smuts scorched my eyes as I hummed an old, sad tune my mother taught me.