I can hear the kudzu creeping. Is it weird to say that I can hear you dying like that? Slowly, but viciously, inching your way toward the gray sky, tongue out to catch what was left of the world. You floated in the sea for a bit before, swam with the dolphins off the coast before, you drank mai tais before, and smoked pot under a palm tree before, but the before was always that, the before. And under-neath you could hear it coming, not like a train or something metal, but something clearly unstoppable, and it made a sound, like wet leaves, a weed spreading its runners, stretching out to meet what was next, feeding delightedly, unaware it was about to darken our whole world with its rapid climbing toward the sky.
Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things: The Vine
