Number ten: Sick tomato plant, purple, bloated over edge of crate, roots reaching between boards like fingers through fence.

Number nine: Tiny and/or distant satellite dish. Appeared during blinking fit a few months back with *****. Comes and goes. Shifty.

Number eight: Moss. Like a fuzzy blanket that lives on you. (I never should've shaved it off.)

Number seven: Basketball. It used to be next to one tree and now it's next to another. Shifty also.

Number six: Douglas firs.

Number five: Windows through the trees. May only be daytime phenomenon.

Number four: Corroded sign declaring hospital grounds off limits. It said more but the bottom's rusted off.

Number three: Douglas.

Number two: Ladder sloughing off white paint like snake skin, slumped against the tallest fir, retching.

Number one: Squirrels.

Love,
the dead minotaur