Not all days aren't ugly

Misty morning on neighbour's farm, digging up potatoes. Stole a dying piglet and kept it in my shirt, trying to keep it warm. Named it Clarence, and Maya, the old golden retriever, stared blinklessly at my belly in the truck ride home as I tried to rub the life back into it. Gave it milk and lay it down, and saw the bruising of what looked like a hoof, the mother sow weighing 600 some odd pounds.

It died while I was picking rocks out of next year's field, the newly naked soil dry and being lifted into dust with every move. After the hot, dusty afternoon I buried Clarence by the bees and gathered tiny peacock feathers.