For the Birds

The air was tainted with a green mist that hung in patches of small, congealing clouds, some above my head, some down at my feet, and everywhere in between. Where the light was stronger, if one of these thicker pockets passed over a lightbulb, that sickly green would be changed for a more yellow hue, a sallow tint. I did not learn of the smell, but given the horrid and repulsed expressions of the dying men, I could guess it was unpleasant. Then, in death, those faces were given over to terrible, sardonic grins. You would find a body, I found one when turning a corner; he had slumped against a wall in an alleyway, and the tightened, distorted face stared up at me with that horrible smile, the bloody tears dried on his cheeks. High above my head, where the poison did not reach, sat a fat crow waiting for the wind to sweep away the low lying vapor and clear the path for his feast. I left him to it, and wandered on. The world was, for the time, given to such carrion devils, and all man could do was smile dumbly at his fate.