Death should be quick like a campfired moth, disappearing wings. An ash so light, flying then dying toward the canopy of knowing trees. The only bit in vision above furtive flames, never mind the space holes of meteor shower dark, the glimmer of the outhouse a few sites down, where the stars drip all night long and the blackberry bushes whisper your secret nickname. You see the brambles first, Too close to the fruit to notice.