Rose was whipped by land wind as cold twilight distant, dim removed gray isolated the stone cabin.
        Dead grass performed wildly a silent pavane and made her eyes ache though she thought it was the wind. They teared; she flung an arm across them, rubbed fiercely with her sleeve and took another step forward and forward of her step was her revolver. It was heavy, made for larger hands but no hand ever held more outrage than Rose's as she clutched its darkness and took another step.









        She kicked open the door.
        Stillness within.
        The wind pushed her from the side, from behind as it coiled over the round hill crest. The pin oak thrashed alone.
        Rose stepped inside; here it was more dim than the lessening without where last light fled and left a flag of charcoal cloud in the livid low west.
        A sudden movement near the mantel.
        Rose spun to face it, the gray stone mantel and, she surmised, the poet tall, supercilious, oblivious, free; bearded, grayed, arrogant, with eyes of boredom and disdain.
        A shadow movement, and Rose fired.
        The owl crashed about the loft, the bullet smashed into the mantel. It ricocheted back as feathers drifted down and Rose fell back to lie upon the dusted floor with a small hole in her forehead.
        The owl watched the blood flow and waited for the night.