h'cnar eht ta noitacretla

Blind dazily into deserted street walks over for a conversation. My head looks up. Hey blind. Is it goin any different today. He reckons it isn't. Tractors got the same hell in'm they had yesterday. There ain't gonna be any produce this harvest weekend.

How many chickens we got left, I ask him. He don't know. Well is it gonna be enough to make due for the dinner, I say then. He shrugs.

Well then I magine you'll be lookin for somethin to serve. He looks up, his unfortunate, sunk in cheeks reflecting sunlight. Boy's got one slim neck. Could be broken in the split of a second.

It's plenty: (didn't quite see his lips move just then).

Glare. Sunlight hung in the humid air, swirling trace paths of commotion. It was time waiting, it wasn't either of us was gonna say anything. We just looked, back and forth between us, seein if the other might have reason to turn lip. But neither of us did; we got set to go back to work, and we did. There wan't ever a fight that day boss, there wan't ever a fight. I say it simply as I can.