An oracle of wind shuffles through dead leaves while the boy sits in the field with the dead deer. The quiet body makes a
She insists it is always summer on the white road, always morning, and the fish bones by the river are picked clean. He watches
The boys, in a dream, are beating a green snake with a stick, slipping the limp rope into the river. Then later they watch
The old men are sitting on their back porches, watching Isaac Babel’s stern-looking goose flying above the lake. Soon it will be twilight, the