They stop looking when the body is a skeleton
He’s outsmarted them
Still
Still
And when the next sun rises, the body still lies there
The body still lies there, only touched by the occasional vulture
When the sun rises and turns the sky crimson,
As he wades into the woody gloom, hoping that the stream never ends
The blood that they’ll never find, he thinks
He also notices how the water turns pink near his shoes
It smells like home
It smells like detergent and cookies
Shuddering, he pulls the collar of the stolen jacket over his neck and face
The air is surprisingly chilly for the late April afternoon
How they flutter and dance in the breeze,
He notices the tiny pink helicopters as they fall from the trees