The grass grows, doesn't it? All by itself. Doesn't even complain when it gets cut — like at a barber, Ma used to say. But it's not like a barber at all is it? It's more — more of a mass murder, all those individual grasses decapitated, tossed up, landing on their comrades' corpses. It's more like fish trawled in giant nets. Chickens' necks slit by the dozens on the killing floor. Fields run red with blood. Choppers grazing overhead. The sky a piercing blue, like a vein waiting to be opened. An ocean, death seething out, a tide that refuses to abate.