Silver Creek "the dreary architecture of your soul"

against what could arguably be called "common-sense" (a commodity koro toro certainly did not have, and obviously had little use for), koro toro was back at the scene of the crime: the fattened river that dissected through silver creek.

he eyeballed the area where he had nearly perished, but thanks to a handsome man named after an even handsomer one (rly, harrison ford radiates BDE), koro toro had just narrowly escaped the waiting jaws of death that bleak winter morning.

but today, harrison was nowhere to be found, and koro toro was scanning the swollen river, looking for egress across. his greedy little nose had led him here; there was a cache that harrison had unwittingly lead him to, and he plans to gorge himself on the fruits of another wolf's labor, and then tottle drunken-like home.

it was the perfect plan, except for the river.

there was a belt of ice-floes to the northern bend, where much of the treeline obscured the river from receiving much sunlight in the wintery months. koro toro wobbled towards it, ears perked as he scanned the icy perimeter. he knew enough not to test the fragile, opaque layer closer to the bank -- but he could see where the river was more still there was an ice-bridge formed across.

it looked sturdy, and as koro toro placed his first step on the frozen surface, it held. it held even on the second step, the third, the fourth -- before long he had crossed a third of the river's span without trouble.

mid-center, there was an old fissure frozen over, the ice scarred and pocked - koro toro stepped warily over this in time for a shaft of sunlight to spill from above; he was now well out of the shadow of tree-cover, and still the frozen surface held.

feeling the warmth of the sun on his ears, seeing the bank inch closer and closer as if sisyphus finally rolled uphill, koro toro's ears perked in anticipation; the worst was soon to be over and any minute now he would be at the opposite bank, gorging on some sucker's hidden meal.

there was not much to ruin this idyllic scene: birds, recently returned from southern migration, chittered in the thorn-bush at the opposite bank. the sun was warm and gradually regaining strenght. the snow had ebbed in many places, and ice remained the last of winter's stronghold.

it was then koro toro mistepped; a sheet of ice no thicker than an inch.

just like that, his body was sucked under as he fracture the ice, his form pulled completely under by the river's hungry current.

the birds continued their nonsensical songs. the sun continued its indifferent shining. and the river continued its dark gurgle, cold and ambivalent to the life it had just stolen.