Writings by: James Owens

This author has written 1 article


The weasel knew their warmth in the dark, ripped throats, let drop the gangly, earnest bodies of two-week-old domer chicks we found slain in the obvious morning light, the chicken coop an aftermath, an abattoir, blood-sopping tufts of down scattered awry, forty-eight of fifty dead, the two living birds huddled…