JUSTICE SYSTEM
- Jul 3
- 1 min read
By Salvatore Difalco
One August morning, the weather
turned strange: black-robed men
with silvery hair rained down
from the sky. They fell screaming
all day and all night, thudding
and thumping to ground, massing
in mangled piles. Panicked, people
ran hither and thither screaming,
wild-eyed, pulling at their hair.
My wife and I decided to evacuate
the city and head up north to our
cottage in Muskoka. The roads
were a bloody mess. “Your wipers
are no good now,” said my wife
as I steered through the carnage.
“I have eyes,” I said. “So do they,”
she said, pointing to the startled
face splattering the windshield.