Death of a chicken

The day was salty, salty like the residue left after evaporation, salty like the beach at low tide. The ocean. So far away, so conspicuously missing. She laid her head on his chest as though holding a seashell to her ear, heard the thush-whoosh of his blood in his heart, the air in his lungs.

Then again, the weather was the least of their concerns today. Yesterday the rain had come up so suddenly, taken them by surprise, and they had scrambled to contain their work under the cover of porch roofs. But now it was contained, nothing left but to do it, to silence the thush-whoosh of 30 beating hearts. There was no more research to be done, phone calls to be made, equipment to be gathered, no more chance of putting it off.

Death. Such a natural thing, she thought. A Nature thing. Beginnings and endings. I've focused on the middle for too long. She sat up in bed, turned the light on, and began her morning routine.