Farmer Steve started out in mid-March with thirty-five chickens: eleven mature and twenty-four hand incubated pullets. By late July he had lost all but seven to various varmints. When he still had nine chickens, Farmer Steve had already caught three raccoons, one possum and two cats in a live-catch trap. The cats were set free... as they belonged to Farmer Steve's neighbor... the possum was dutifully shot, and the coons were sent up the road to take part in training exercises, from which, Farmer Steve was assured, they would not return.
In the ‘About You:’ space meant for describing in at least one hundred words, no more than five, his perfect match, Steven wrote, among other things: 'In your closet, an overcoat has been hidden more than once, pockets filled with stones, hem wet from your baulking.'
In this long thirst, I imagine the trees must arch their great spines and shudder when finally the drum of thunder is heard rolling across these drought-browned hills; the sound, bearing to their leaves the same promise a lover’s breath would to the cup of my own ear.