FIELD REPORT: WHEELING, WV

Carliann Rittman

The cow bent to the grass. None of the trees were obvious, nor the clouds. Anger began to flow through what I once took to be my sense of charity. He couldn't see me? There I was, presenting myself to this sad beast. The color stayed the same. I thought it was bravery. He clearly knew nothing of it. I failed to fully grasp what it might mean that nothing I had thought—up to this point—had impact on this strange being. I barked. Uncertainty crossed his mind, I watched it happen. I sat down in front of him. Still, not even an ounce of joy. What could I do? The rage of the past few seconds melted into fear. Fresh cut grass. The pleasure I knew it would bring me for a single movement other than the flicker of an eyelash. There I stayed. The flies persevered, the mosquitoes began imparting on me a sense of warmth. When I began to cry my knees creaked to standing. I was determined to walk away, then, and to not turn around once. Indifference would fill me as the house neared. Leg itched. I thought what curiosity. I sat by the fire, let the sparks burn the itches. When I began to piss on it, he sneezed.