Slates come off every spring, he tells his son. Ice works up under them all winter so a strong wind can kick them lose. Keep an eye out, he said, and the barn doors, tell the girl who feeds the horses to close them tight or the wind will tear them off. His son nods. She’s still coming, every day, that girl who said she would? His son nods but doesn’t look at him. He is older somehow, the top of his head a pink bowl. He asks his son again, feeling that old necessity working its way into his blood, drumming his heart faster than it should go. Check the fences by the road. Continue reading
Bloom 