THE DEVOURED HEART
It was nearly midnight as I hiked up the trail into Coyote Hills.
It was going to be October 16th, my mother’s birthday had she still been alive.
During my climb I stepped aside for only one traveler, a whirring night-bicyclist, her bright light beaming as if she were a falling star descending past me.
A fog had begun to engulf the lower Coyote Hills.
The fog luminescent in the moonlight, the peaks of the higher hills still visible darkly, the stars sparking above, I arrived at the crest of the trail where the great Weeping Willow tree spread.
The great Weeping Willow was often a campsite for homeless people but I never saw the same person there twice. Or ever again. This night there was no one; only the debris of previous habitation.
I stood beneath the great…
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