Flash Fiction: Stone Sun

It is all for a right turn of the head, mid-field, and there is the sunset. The mud explodes from foot to foot, from foot to foot, and the now-gone sun makes a stain. My airless mouth hangs in shock. My hands flop and a stone trips me back to last Friday, discussing the hard problems of consciousness with some students. Finally: a bird. What is it like to be a bat? What is it like to run and run?