Clouds hang loosely over this mountain range behind my house. In a while the light will go and the wind come up to scatter these clouds, or some other. across the sky. I drop to my knees, roll the big salmon onto its side on the wet grass, and begin to use the knife I was born with. Soon I'll be at the table in the living room, trying to raise the dead. The moon and the dark water my companions. My hands are silvery with scales. Fingers mingling with the dark blood. Finally, I cut Continúe leyendo