There was a small animal dying by the river, a carved wooden mink. Because
it is wood, it swells. In the sun, it cracks. The mink has a high piercing
wail, irritated and sick, a voice shredded by hands. Its left tusk had fallen,
lay dangling by a single nerve. The back was cracked and showed the grain
of its fabrication: pine. Perhaps it could be repieced with glue. I held
it in my arms, the mink continued weeping, unconsolable, aged.
Soon, it is driftwood.
- 0 1 2 +