The filth of bottles, trinkets, and crepe left behind by the Mardi Gras parade renders the morning streets nearly as impassable as when celebrants still danced, drank, and died here all night.
He has left no trail, but the gutters, alleys, and alcoves imply a logic of movement that hunters like he and I must obey.
I find him in a cloister still twilight under live oaks woolly with Resurrection Fern. His back to me while he worries at her body, he nonetheless knows my approach.
“Are you here for me?”
“You want what’s left?”
“You know I don’t work that way.”
His chuckle is phlegmy. He rises slowly, and sparkles of sun through the oak leaves reflect silver in his hands.
“You can’t have both of us, you know.”
I do. We go in different directions down the imperturbable street.