brightberries

She knows the road by smell long before she feels its heat; old rain trapped in cracks, iron dust, the sour breath of rubber, something sharp like wet metallic materials. Viridian’s afternoon light lies flat on the blacktop, pooling in the shallow dips where tires have chewed it soft. The calico meowth waits in the gutter’s shadow, yellow irises set in white scleras, thin with calculation. Two kittens press against her belly, ribby and warm: one—bold, always bold—edges out first, whiskers testing the air like reeds.