A fresh grave has that distinctive look to it, and from where I stood, I could tell those were four fresh graves. A little muddy. Mostly rectangular. Nobody should ever go and put political campaign signs in a fresh grave, though. 'Least that's what I was thinking.
So I took just a couple of steps forward to get a little nearer to the edge of the graves, and so that I could read the fine print on the sign that was sticking out of one of them. There it stood, propped up on two wire legs. “Caddick for 2nd Ward Alderman.” I wondered if it was Caddick who was buried in the grave or if Caddick had come by and put it there, or if perhaps Caddick's oppponent was buried there. I thought that the last option might have been the most ironic but also the most fitting. I could only hope.
A squirrel ran across the grass not far from where I stood. It was a black squirrel – a kind that you don't see all that often, but the kind of squirrel that really grabs your attention when you do see it. Rare. Not unlike a political campaign sign sticking out of a fresh grave, I guess.
I heard the gentle movement of cloth next to me, turned, and saw a fellow in some kind of shroud standing next to me. It was almost as much of a cope or what might have been known as a “cappa” as it was a shroud, for it had some sort of hood on it. He had just walked up next to me and stood there, quiet and seeming to enjoy his shroud or his cope or his cappa or whatever the hell it was.
“The one was a faithful man...and true,” said my shrouded or coped or cappa-ed vistitor.
I kept looking at the grave and nodded.
“He was kind of like a black squirrel.”