Is Silos tick in below zero weather.
Wind chill makes a fossil of touch.
Out here, memory howls across crops and coyotes hunt and break wheat into maps of their skill. The dark silos ticking lure me to sleep, where my hand's a faint imprint in gray stone a woman finds and believes is the death of something extinct. 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.