The buzzards have yet to circle; there is little of this man left worth picking over. Hard desert living has sand-blasted most comfort from his flesh, forsaking a gaunt wasteland of sallow skin cooked into leather on rangy limbs. A short, shitty haircut shies from his crown, where dark hair thins to expose a sun-spotted pate. Bristly whiskers are rarely permitted to grow beneath the hooked nose on his long face, a cockled landscape of lines and scars. Ripest for plucking, pitfall eyes of black tar pool within bruised hollows, slick and sticky.
