She recognizes, she says, its turmoil. At least in that we're the same. The man she's talking to turns toward the sound of metal contracting. The heat won't kick on. Coyotes have come to town again for food.
Fossils say something much like coyotes starved millions of years ago.
The woman I touched behind those silos is dead. The first time I saw her breasts, a tick was burrowing under my scalp. My mother'd burn it out two days later. I'd think about the blood in the bloated and scorched body, how the pain of her buttoning back up her blouse must have driven such a small body mad. The man doesn't see the shadow pass over the bare breast next to where his son suckles in rhythm to the silos ticking in the cold.