It announces itself as a rustle in the bushes, as a tug of the hem, as a flash of light in the eye, as
The dead hen needed burying before the kids saw her bent neck and red comb in the muck. The vixen must have dropped her,
The hens shrill us awake into the bullet dawn. Only animals move quickly in this primordial light. My husband makes coffee with my rifle
Translated by Michael Goldman There’s not just barley growing in the new Danish landscape loneliness grows there too and denser with each year that