The half-freezing pitter-patter of blueish icy rain on the brushwood below, more fair than sunlight itself on the bridge sleeping, passing traffic lights and red blurs of a vampire frenzy, the stirring mechanical boxes encased in glass move like conveyor belt snakes in the morning, forbidden frost giants in the water stand like sturdy trees iced over, the bale workers speak in foreign breath clouds among the cold, frozen dirt, greasy baby birds in a nest of twigs cry for their dead mother.
A far-away pregnant goat bleats as it's slaughtered, a stark, blistering interruption in the loveless arteries, burning tires, blaring horns, broken glass, alerted senses and murderous fangs appear, a hateful pulse in a dead world full of walking, talking, dead people, shouts of fat, fleshy cattle bickering over a wreck on the highway, jasper colored tongue protruding, perched and pensive like a whispering Bombay with watchful eyes.