The bunkhouse was quiet. No buzzing from flies and mosquitoes that night. A little snow sifted onto the floor from the hole in the roof where the stovepipe was going to go. The sky was still light through the hole.
The hands were islands of misery, bodies stiff and numb. They played Ma Jong and picked at sores and callouses, shedding skin as if they were turning into butterflies. The man in the southwest bunk pulled blankets and straw over himself, imagined the sun on his body in the morning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment