Silent Night

At the butchers, a young man asks if I want to stay while they kill the roosters. I say I have to run errands. I always say that. I can’t imagine sitting in the parking lot, waiting for the birds to be killed, plucked, put on ice. When I return a few hours later, my roosters’ carcasses are on ice. The snow is still falling. Butchering is continuing. I hear the squawk of birds and smell the blood. Will I ever get used to the smell? I feel light-headed. The young man motions that it will be a few minutes. I retreat to the storefront and wait. Inside I hear the sound of a solo flute. Stepping around the corner, I see a woman standing and staring at sheet music lying on the floor. In her hands, she holds a flute. Outside the snow falls. Squawks come from the butchering floor. And she practices “Silent Night.”