Before a place can become a place, it must have secrets.

A boy goes to a field where five sheep have died. In search of something conclusive, a way to proceed. There is no trace of carnage: wolf, coyote. The ground is frozen, snowless. The boy kicks at the soil with the worn toe of one boot. He catches a whiff of wool, or so he believes.

(never summon anything you can’t banish)

Things I’ve stolen: lunch money; the scissors that stabbed the bathroom door; a blurred photograph of a friend’s parents, and the Polaroid that produced it; hope.

Two grandmothers sing in the field: What is the riddle? They wear faded cotton dresses and sing a song in the language of their youth. We are not privy to translation. We argue intentionality, debate the presence or absence of shears: We reach no agreement.

(not every cry is a cry for help)

I am 7% belief and 32% water, another lady pilot outside a welding shop in the dark. My father: Always have a skill you can fall back on. My father: Never plant a tree heedless of what it might become. My father: Remember, the last words you hear will be a lie.

The boy is a thick wool scarf effective against the wind. The boy is a t-shirt ink-stamped with the words: The soils that hunt you want you back. There is no grave, no marker, no obvious sign of the deaths.

(as with most rumors, it’s just your eyes beginning to fail)

One grandmother smokes a cigarette; its long ash dangles in the cold. The other studies the ground, walks in a small circle, hands linked at her back.

The boy’s hair sheared off, careless: shorter on one side. He hugs himself for warmth. In the field: treeless wind; boulders and knee grass. He waits to see or smell something that makes the sheep — death — real. The metallic tang of blood. A carcass. Even a bone.

The grandmothers avert their gaze; sing their private song.

+++