by Tim Tobin
The desert sun burns my skin even as my teeth chatter.
Life drips from the two bullet holes while the shadows of death sail across the sun, swoop on thermals and wait.
Hooves shatter the quiet.
But my murderer steps down to mock me.
The hiss of a rattlesnake spooks the horse and strands another man in the desert, in the heat, sun, and sand.
“Shoot,” I plead. “Finish it,” I beg.
The killer draws his gun; salvation is at hand.
His head explodes. The buzzards descend. His eyes go first.
I crawl towards the gun, my teeth chattering.
Mr Tobin holds a degree in mathematics and retired. Eighty-five of his stories/poems appear in print and online. Most recently, a collection of his childhood poems appeared in the Poet Magazine and a drabble, “Fiendish”, appeared in Black Ink Fiction.