The Tortoise and the Tortoise

By this time, the world had been exhausted, eaten and eaten. All its creatures had been tucked in, and the land was at rest. The hills breathed. The tender hands of the mushrooms had by now set about unmaking death and remaking it into a gentle gleaming realm. At night, their soft fruiting bodies glowed. The world had grown quiet.

In the morning, the desert spread out below the little hill, into which the small shrine was set like a diamond. Its paper flowers were shredded and discolored. The face of the Virgin was covered in soot, weeping. At her feet were offerings. Coins and dented trumpets. Piles of crucifixes and ribbons of old film.