Quiescense – dripdripdripping through the autumn haze. Birdsong and cricketscree fill my head with buzzing white noise. I stuff snail shells into my ears – drowning sound.
I clutch soggy events of days past round my slippery ribs and shudder at the thought of icy dawns soon to come. Torn down broken bones of houses long tumbled are my only friends.
Not the dog nor the cat nor the rabbit nor the mouse come near. I stink of death and blood and ancient ways, and I am fear to them.
Long have I tarried in this quiet place where man races above neither seeing me nor hearing me nor wanting to know of me. At night, when the moon sleeps, I put sharp brokens on the black road. When I hear the monster smash into the trees I eat what remains.
Once I found a looksee dropped by a child’s hand. It was scrawled in graffiti and runes, in the new tongues. It had a picture of me. Of me. Of my kind. Of my race. Of us.
I am the last.
I am the bones of the earth. I am smoke. I am moss. I am dust and stone.
I am TROLL.
Do not go trip-trapping on my bridge.