Saw a skunk dying, it seemed in the throws of death, unable to balance, kicking it’s paws in a spasm, then still, then kicking again. It released it’s smell too, the more intense part of it either already passed or waited for whoever dared try to assist the patient. Maybe it fell from a tree like the time I saw a dead raccoon plopped on the ground with no explanation until I looked up. But skunks aren’t tree climbers. Maybe one of the zillion dogs often off leash on these trails attacked it, or maybe this is how a life ends and we have no details except this is the end, my only friend, the end. One thing both Jim Morrison and Francis Ford Coppola nailed. If I actually am teaching a course next year about making videos for one’s music, the course I pitched and recently defended, perhaps I’ll start with Apocalypse Now before pivoting to everything else that isn’t Hollywood, because that opening is such a strong marriage of war and music and meaninglessness. I’m sorry skunk, if this was the result of a dog attack I hope the dog stinks for a very long long time.