Land wind whipped at Rose's jacket. It was green, but all of twilight gray, cold, failing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

        The cabin taunted like the poet, the cards ringed her, and it, and them, ringed and waiting, taunting, silent, the wind snapped the grass and readied the death pavane.
        Rose kicked the cabin door in, she saw the poet looming ghostly, graven like a mantel; startled, she fired, chips of stone flew up a shower and feathers showered down.
        An instant Rose believed her last instant gave her cruel knowledge of murdered fowl; joker, life, to take instead of foul poet murdered by her own gun Rose guessed that was her last thought as she felt the blow, but it only tore her hair left of her brow. A dark lock fell with feathers.
        The owl left it for lesser birds.