At the center is the sacrificial body. Dried up and tattered from the hot desert sun, with its entirely distinct, owlish intensity – though its head, small and shriveled; body, a mass of downy grey speckled fluff; talons, tied together at the base – appears immortal. Now and then, the dusty breeze moves a feather, slightly.
Why did I happen to notice the crucifix in the first place? It's out by the road, but behind the metal gate. It blends into the faded pink sand, old wood, and cement. It makes me wonder, what did that owl do to that person. Some unforgivable harm? The only living presence, the dog chained to the post, plays with a bone in the dust, and says nothing.