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One day, two or three years ago, she walked out in the morning,
into the meadow, in her white cotton dress, leaving the
children playing with Marie in the big upstairs room,
to smell the pollen and inhale the sun,
to continue melting herself after a long cloudy winter.
Near the bottom of the meadow, she heard a sound, a sound
all out of keeping with the day and the contented hum of
the bees and the clover.
Lying in the ditch at the very edge of the flat space,
where the brambles and wilderness began, was a
man.
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