Rowan Hale

Four pints. Bottled lemon juice measured, not squeezed from a fruit I had around. Seals went down as they cooled.

Veins matched. I left the plants I was not sure about. Dried a small bundle in the shed, out of the sun.

Bucket is in the shade. Castings on the left, scraps on the right. Bedding still wrung-out, not soup.

Field pants, inside out. I stopped where the cloth was rotten and did not pretend a seam would hold that.

Weighed the belly and the salt. Fridge the whole time. Rinsed and cooked it through before it hit a plate.