Dead calves stacked.
Open like their eyes.
By vultures.
Scared off a flock pulling up.
Turkeys escape over my right shoulder.
And little mouths that never nursed hang open.
I close in. To empty a barn full on top of them.
Burying them. Bearing them. Like trash.

These people.

Life stock.
Plain and simple.
You know that it is, what it means, don’t you?
Whenever you’ve got livestock, you’ve got deadstock.
Just a part of farming.
You can be a farmer.

Just as long as you don’t find that alarming.

Dad always said I worked harder for a fire than anything else.