• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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How many babies have we buried here? How many fluttering hearts laid to rest beneath this dry earth, under restless heads of grass? The hay never fails to grow, though rain rarely comes these days, except on Sundays when we listen to sermons of floods and redemption that stab me like that old pitchfork you use to turn the hay every third day. Once I looked for clouds, but now I know they will not come and the fodder will be stacked high over my dry cheeks and the cows will flood their young.