Wilbur Hill Farm, Carolina, Rhode Island

Girl: Cold, hard stars were out, I was not lucid nor was I vivid.

Narrator: The world was crisp like a September Macintosh that night, the air was thin, razor edged, while stars blinked too fast and pretended they were near. Large men stood around a fire tossing in cardboard from Budweiser twelve packs, they burned down into strange orange peel cylinders.   

Large Men: (Talking in a murmuring manner their large hands fold into back pockets)                                                                     Mirror, mirror on the wall                                                                      Whose the fairest of us all?

Narrator: The cock crows in the barn loft at two a.m., only the hens should be roosting who invades his sanctum of plastic coat hangers and hay?

Girl: What garlic-laced lips converge with mine? Whose eyes silver-like sing as Autumn white stars over Carolina?

Narrator:  It’s Wilbur Hill Farm and a ram enters in the stall below.

Boy: Fresh farm girl, farm fresh girl in a barn of coat hanger plastic… you try your wiles with me, you count your hens and eggs this mid-October night. I was only being ensnared there because I ate too much garlic that night.

Girl: Because the air smiled Autumn right and you laughed at my Irish Proverbs.

Narrator: “The hen flew up and the cock flattened her.”