Footprints

Brr. That's all I've got to say, brrrr.

"When was the last time it rained?" Manning crouched, hands on his knees, bending to look at the cracked sand they walked on. "I don't know, mon, but it's been months." Bunny shook his head, his dreadlocks lashing his shoulders. "Why you care?" Manning straightened, took off his boonie hat, and wiped his forehead. "I want to know what made those prints and when." He kept walking along the trail of tiny bird footprints, glancing over his shoulder to frown at his own prints stretching back to the crumbling asphalt road. Bunny stood and stared after him, confusion rising in his red-rimmed eyes. "It was just a bird, mon. Birds don't tell no tales." He lurched forward as if Manning had tugged on an invisible lead. They walked down the deserted stretch of sand toward the mangroves. When they reached the dark edge where the spidery roots began their tangled quest for space, the two men argued, Manning angry, flinging his arms and leaning forward for emphasis. Bunny was not swayed. His face remained impassive as he shook his head. Finally giving up, Manning plunged into the mangrove thicket and soon disappeared. Bunny crouched in the shade to wait, pulled a fattie from his dirty cargo shorts, lit up, and launched into a medley of his favorite Bob Marley songs to keep his nerve strong.

Today's a soup day. The chicken gets it and I'm sending every veggie I can get my hands on to keep the bird company. It's just too cold for lunchmeat sandwiches.

--Barbara