Conyer Clayton

GOOGLE DOC OF DEATH

I created the shared Google Doc of Death tonight, a random weekday
evening. Earlier I stood by the river, content. I wrote
in the third person. Connie wants to be cremated. There's been 
a storm coming for days now, but it never comes.
The wind just teases. Gusts. Holds seagulls still above
the water. Connie wants to be a birch, or maybe an oak, but probably
a birch. Far away. There are so many black birds hovering
against grey clouds, they look like gnats, but without reason. The air
couldn't be thicker. You could squeeze it, then little droplets, birds
would fall from the sky. Connie wants the rest of her ashes to be
divided among those who want some, to do with what they will, what 
would make them happy. There's a spot here we could come and swim
once the storm builds and breaks. Water in all considerations.
Submersion. Incoming. Held aloft. The driest one could ever be.
Connie wants to be cremated. The driest I could ever be.