4 am. We worked
by headlamp. Ten per crate 

so they couldn’t move. Single 
prerogative, no talking. Couldn’t 

afford to lose count. Sixty-one. Sixty-
two. They’re hungry, sixty-

four. Butcher’s orders, no grain
the last two days. Too messy, 

it gums up his knife. What 
to think – sixty-five. Doesn’t last, 

J had said. Discomfort,
then it’s over. She passed 

them upside down and I grabbed them 
by the legs. Each pair was dense,

warm against my hands. I flipped their bodies 
upright, pinned their wings. Loaded them. 

Seventy. The sky scrubbed itself
clean above us, pale 

and silent as a tooth. We finished. Lifted
the crates into the truck. No broken

toes, J said. Always lift, never drag.
She roped the tailgate. Cinched it. We climbed

into the cab. When she started the engine,
the radio brayed out. She left it. 

Started driving. Above us, the sky 
was panting. The air was hot. The white pines 

sharpened against the light.