Farm fingers found a carcass in the chicken coop. A hawk had had it, left it there for later. He scooped up slow, hands spread wide for the bird, and walked it back out to the driveway.
This you could rip apart, one wing at a time, one bone from a bird, bone after bone off a bird. You’d see the moon when it came up. Down in the village men are screening football and calling it film. Women painting panels black, carving mouths into alabaster. A dog gets shot in the dark some- times too.
He rips it slow and good, all the sounds of the ripping, all the tendons of the contraption, all the sun across the winter on his one straight drive from the road. A hawk will come back but he’ll find something different.