Abattoir

Rudy Speck climbs into his pick-up and drives away from an argument with his wife.

Trees clutter the mountain. There is no more room for order.

The morning air is cold enough to capture things. It’s like a momentary mirror, a public lung, and it reminds any onlooker how livestock breathe.

Rudy wears a white coat at the abattoir. Doesn’t know it but misses the sense of sacredness that death provides when it happens outside of preparation.

It takes him time realising, when he works at the abattoir rearranging pieces of songs (hooks), that certain things do not require killing to be killed.

Just a slow giving in, a small fault in a man’s hand, a kind of amble or trudge, will suffice.