Disoriented — like after a long journey or a feast — they emerged from their hiding places. With no apparent sense of direction, they didn’t seem to be heading anywhere in particular, one following the other past the fences and the utility poles and the faded signs taped on them, tottering and swaying along the bumpy road. They of course couldn’t read the signs, and anyway were busy marking the territory — the street corners, the gates, the trunks of trees. 

The rising sun shone over the forests and neighbouring villages; it washed over them, and over the cottages with their vegetable gardens, and the shop and the tavern which were scattered about like chess pieces after a game; over the blue roof of the monastery, the desolate factories, and the stony Lenins; the auditoriums, where empty seats looked out at the football field; stopping just short of the mute swimming hall.

The river streaked through the land. At some point it straightened and widened, gobbling up a few bushes, indifferent to borders. Here the dogs arrived, a bit tired now after their morning stroll. They were so thirsty they sank into the water up to their bellies. Stones slipped under their paws. Water rinsed the dirt and the urine off their fur. They lay down in the grass, replenished and sated.

The grass was tall and dry: one torn plastic flip-flop lay there, a shy reminder of absence. It had been a long time since anybody came to the river. The rusty yellow tractor was still on the riverbank, its excavator up in the air like an unfinished sentence. 

The river flowed in a rush, chasing the bigger rivers that lead to the sea. There were no clouds in the sky. There was only the wide, dark stream of the river, and the dogs, who until now had been dozing, but, startled by a noise or a sudden movement, all at once opened their eyes. Darting glances, a musty breeze. After a few hesitating seconds they took off, tails up, teeth baring, pink tongues hanging out. They too were on a chase.