Table of Contents
by Tom Hennen
“The crow’s voice filtered through the walls of the farmhousemakes sounds of a rusty car engine turning over. Clouds on anorth wind that whistles softly and cold. Spruce trees plantedin a line on the south side of the house weave and scrape at theair. I’ve walked to a far field to a fence line of rocks where I amsurprised to see soft mud this raw day. No new tracks in themud, only desiccated grass among the rocks, a bare grove oftrees in the distance, a blue sky thin as an eggshell with a crackof dark geese running through it, their voices faint and almosttroubled as they disappear in a wedge that has opened at last
the cold heart of winter.”