"Heat is Heat"
Mouth Trap by Rebbecca Brown
The truck turned past fields and paddies while heat held him in its grip gasping with nothing but a gun and desire to drown the water that presses, swamps him.
What do you think the woods would want without the sun to slash them green? he said while the truck bumped over a road choking hope.
He said I would like to break this heat, bottle it up, sell it to the frostbitten, save it. No way else to explain but cold is cold and heat is heat.
The migration of birds across rivers and valleys from icy nights swamped with water wavering vision moved toward someone who thinks he can capture heat bottled and stuffed.
The dead are practical. He takes his gun slings it over a shoulder and shoots blustered feathers into falling. He says There should not be sadness. The dead are practical all piled up.
Think about it he says. In the dirty water the thrashing fish tease worms. What would we do without the heat of the dead to sustain us?