"Who were you? Who killed you?"

This is why I like the New York Times. When a typical cut-and-dried journalism story might have sufficed, they get more than a little style into the writing. An example:

The summer of 1998 baked on. Autumn arrived to rain-swell the creek and send skull bits floating down the bed of silt and stone. Winter followed to skim the mesh of gray twigs and pale bones with a veil of ice. Then, one February morning, two hunters running their beagles were stopped cold in their tracks; the living, finally, took notice.

Beautiful writing, I think.

I'm reminded of the story I once wrote for the Fairfield Daily Republic about a migrant worker killed as he ran across a dark Suisun Valley Road at night. I started out all lyrical and, shameful to say, not nearly as articulate as the Times writer. I was the butt of more than one joke at the critique session that day.