I once took
a walk along the cracked asphalt roads of Tire where the broad strappy leaves
of tobacco and corn shone silver and green and still, as a hot windless sea. It
had been a long morning with the hours slowly beating down until my shadow was whittled
back to just a turtle-nose of shade. It was then that a curly-haired man on a
tiny motorbike buzzed by. He held the chortling throttle with one hand, and
with the other he held a burlap sack off to the side. From the bottom of the
sack there swung a chickens head; its eyes blazoned with shock and glitches of
awe.