Today as I feed the chooks, I see how spring’s finished flowers clutter the grass with their bones, fleshless and delicate. Just think how the birth of every apple begins with this death and littering. I throw handfuls of dried corn, and remember how the night sprays a sweep of clandestine stars, so bespeckling our darkness that their roaring deaths are unimaginable to our poor and tardy vision. The sky’s a weighty spread today and my gummy head seeks cushioning for its blankness. And yet we all coexist with the subliminal, ignorant as rabbits until, smoked from their holes by the night fox, ideas and fears skitter before our eyes. And so, thinking of foxes, I shut the chook house door remembering to check for eggs.