No wonder I like fish. Not the food as in pescado, but the life that swims like a question mark in the body with
Amy brings in an egg from the coop, it’s warm, slightly speckled, dotted with dimples. She shows me how to candle an egg, takes
Surf’s edge, the shallow trough I dig for her to lie in, mound high with wet, heavy sand. Több, she says, több, for me