Darkness sweeps like a scythe from the billowed sleeves of Winter, severing everything: leaf from branch, root from trunk, time from time itself, so that the daysmall stillbirth of morning finds rigid corpses, strewn amidst broken pole wires, gaping in dull amazement at particles of past and future, scattered across the sidewalk like fragments of a broken watch. Three - o - seven. The clock stares, open-faced, hands eternally outstretched to ward off the blow. Beneath trailing wire, frozen sparks gleam where they landed, expelled by the last breath, spewed into nothing: stuck. Where are the busy, bold beetles that roll out to profit from the night? Here and there, in ditches, where they were struck, belly up, stiff legs curled over the stiffening ooze of fractured fuel lines, breached anatomy.