August

 

Something was dead in the woods. Perfect.

It was August, and there was nothing cool or refreshing left outside in Texas.

The dirt felt like lava, the water in ponds and lakes was piss-warm, and breathing felt of nothing since the air was the temperature of the inside of a body.

The air was thick with the scent of pine, because the sap was melted inside the trunks.

And now that was overpowered by the stench of rotting flesh.

The vultures circled lazily. Between them and the insects, all soft parts of whatever it was would be gone within days.