In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

78 How the Living Worry My chickens are dead.Their missing heads are whispers, their feet upturned and feathers luckless as ashes. The bloody pen.A weasel stole the night. What to dwell on—chickens, weasels, or night? Time and time again, nothing but whispers. Sunrise more smoke than fire and ashes. There’s death in the air, a waltz of chickens and ashes. Hard to trap that weasel stalking the night and turning the sky, its litany of stars, to whispers. Death is a whisper, a rain of ashes falling all night. ...

Share