Rosie stands facing the wind. She watches the cab driver angrily wiping crow shit from the windshield of his cab, with a handful of dry leaves.
What now? Cut and run? No way. It won't work, and he'll shoot with even greater pleasure. No. Why give the evil jerk the satisfaction? Nature is beautiful here, why go anywhere else? The breeze caressing my face, the landscape perfect as a stage set, and crows roaming the paths of the sky.
She lay down on a grassy mound and gazed at the clouds. Soft leaves under her head smell sharp and sweet. They cool her. The earth is made of little clods of clay. An ant. More ants. The crows have swooped closer, their greedy cawing floating to the ground. But Rosie has closed her eyes. The leaves are still fragrant. High in the sky the droning of a plane. It is Autumn.
The cab driver commits a crime
or he doesn't ...