Halfway between Troy and Moscow, she lives in a house scoured pewter by wind the back gate a tatter of signs - BEWARE OF THE DOG - 90¢ A DOZEN - HONK. In an onion of sweaters, an overlap of holes, she complains the sonic booms crack her goose eggs - the dog barks toothless as her smile. Hat crammed to the hollows of her eyes, their yolks blurred by cataracts, she explains how she folds the infertile back into the feed - a recycling of naughts to aughts. Snow seeds the furrowed hills where, a scuttle of arthritis between the weather of barn and house, this woman deals in eggs, her age a cipher of circles. |