Reading One Arm, by Tenn. Williams. "But death has never been much in the way of completion." I realized I stopped paying attention after this line; looking at the various birds of this backyard Boise, the recognizable house finch with its vermilion tinted breast, the color subtly changing faded green and the sage growing purple, wheat-yellows, the rustle of the invasive Russian Olive. The ending of this story, with the Apollo youth seeming too perfect for anyone to touch with a knife, his unclaimed body donated to the medical school, just a tender one gone...
truly lovely, this writer.
