Life is speeding up. Flying by. I feel motionless, molasses slow, as it spins around me. I want to get it all out, get it all down, carve it into stone, preserve my words, make my mark before I slump into dust, so many nameless motes and bits.

It's cold and mean outside. Inside, too. I have to fight to care about my own voice. I have to push and punch and grind my teeth. I have to growl to keep the stray dogs away from my morsel of voice. I carry it, warm and vulnerable, in the back of my mouth, beneath my tongue. If I speak it might dart away, may fly, lace wing, stick bug lost in the hurricane.

I let it out to hen scratch on paper, peck at the keyboard, lay eggs beneath the back porch. It clucks and furtively struts, it's chicken and likes to hide in the coop. In its voice nest it dreams, weaves feathers, preens and gobbles shiny pebbles for its gizzard.

Beware the fox. Beware the knife. Beware the sniffing hounds and beware the farmer's wife.