Dandy looked across the plain. Westward drifters turnin’ Eastbound fast as they can. Spinning tight little circles–bodies in sharp cahoots. He started walking; Willy by his side. There was no reason for madness on a day like this, when the sky shinned bright like polished topaz, stretched and beaten to encase the world, to kiss the sea, to breathing free and–sffffffffff ah!–to come to me.
But the drifters–maniacs–puffed and hummed, spinning tight, their eyes bent on their path and their path bent to beaten down the earth and lay their bodies down to blessed numbness. They would go ’til they collapsed. Until the buzzards encroached upon their sweat seeeped skin and argued they were dead enough.
Dandy shot his rifle up into that sky. The drifters snapped and started West. They would not stop until something obstructed them, something like a fence, a boulder, the sea. There was a boat sponsored by the ACB and the coast guard would call and hopefully catch them before their muscles cramped or the sharks decided they were just about the bread enough.
Always west. Always west. Sometimes they would sense or feel something that would trip them up and turn them oil spill.
Almond eyes and cherry grins and there they go a spin again.