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The specter of death hangs over the farm. A foul stench settled in late Thursday evening; it surrounds the house and wafts in through the windows. It settles here, and disappears. It turns up there, and fades away. It rolls down the road and through the gate, leaking from the farm and into the valley.

Possum is my best guess. Could be raccoon or fox. If it’s a deer it will be around for a good long time.

I can’t find it. It’s strongest at twilight, when the air is cooling and settling down and pressing the farm back down on its self. I walk through the weeds. I go in circles. I can’t find the source of the stench.

I’d do something about it if I could. I need only locate it to do something about it. I need only find the source of the problem to address it. It eludes me.

I’ve got the tools to get the job done. Sort of. Odds are, if I knew where a decaying possum carcass was, I’d be able to find a shovel and get rid of it. I think there’s one in the shop. Maybe near the compost heap. If all else fails I seem to remember a pick axe somewhere near the nasturtiums.

I need only identify the source of the stench.