i drove along the river with the sun kissing my skin, i watched the city water the dead. the small cemetery, with it's garden of generations of glenwood natives, sat still and drank in all that the current citizens could offer them. There were no flowers adorning the headstones, no flags marking the plots of the humble service men who lost their lives protecting the people of the small town they spent their lives, no families visiting their lost loves. All theat stood were six sprinkler heads spread thoughtout the grounds spraying their water about the tenants; tall, rusty, and satisfying.
It seemed appropriate that in this small sleepy town the only one to attend to the dead would be the one man who sets a seasonal timer. No one there except the passers by to make sure that their tax dollars are being spent well.
What would they think? Do the ghosts and spectors who haunt glenwood springs even know they are being attended to? Are they starving for more? Are they disappointed in those who put them there? What else do they want?
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