Burning Bridges Like Matchsticks

There's a dead groundhog on the side of the road. One second, it is a dark lump lying in the frosty gravel. Two seconds and each hair glints fleetingly, refracting the first rays of sunlight thrown low and hard across the landscape. Three seconds and I see the bubblegum pink of its intestines, caked on the body like dried foam on a bar of soap. Four seconds, it's gone.