By: Alex Claw
I crash through the stands of bamboo and kudzu, the mass tucked in my arms begins to weep, calling for her mother. She’s not fighting me, she’s not struggling for me to let her go, she’s limp and sobbing. They are the tears of a child who knows there is no more hope.
There is rumbling behind me, bamboo stalks crash to the ground and the stench of death and blood is heavy in the air.