Yesterday, I kicked an acorn into the middle of the road. Today, I saw a dead squirrel there, tire treads impressed on its ruined back.
Now come the scavengers, the carrion-eaters, the things that thrive on death. They gorge themselves, growing fat and slow on the carnage, until they too fall to the unheeding tires of texting drivers and they themselves are eaten in an ever-spinning Circle of Death.
Causality settles on my shoulders like a slackened noose. The acorn that began it? Smashed on the pavement. All its potential broken and ground, unnourished, into the concrete.
The sins of Monday manifest even through Tuesday, like ripples in a fetid pond throwing up stink long after the stone has sunk to the bottom.