Howie Good


A premature hint of spring creeps into town overnight. Suddenly I’m aware of the dead birds hanging by their stretched necks like window ornaments. I started growing a beard as a diversion, for something to do, but have kept it as a kind of camouflage. Even so, an air of sadness clings to me like a gypsy curse. Or maybe it’s that words have begun to resist assigned meanings. My own countrymen prefer speed, directness simplicity – the booming echo of a gunshot to the eerie silence that follows.

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