An old man ploughing his field. Fallow rivers of termites. I heard them digging the grave, the laughing pitched against stones. A pearl-spotted owl stuttering against thorns. A sound unidentified moving through the unelectrified night.
Morning turns with the shovel.
Din of roosters. The sun in a tin basin, we washed off death at the gate each Saturday, how we ate and ate. A girl scoops up a barnacle still sealed, sleek as a liver, glossy-black. Her fingers trace its ear-like curve, wrench it open. She drops the shell-winged body foaming to the beach benchmarked by the tide's endless starting over, erasing the margin of regret.