In the Russian Marshes

The crisp scent of forthcoming winter churns out suicide notes for the illiterate A slew of chirruping crickets leap into the mire, Their light corpses ripple 'Xs' in the water A lively array of night creatures and nether worldly entities titter and squawk at the intruders' arrival Alyosha watches Mihail's strides, Something artificial about his wretches posture needles his thoughts The boy sees him as a porcelain ox under the plow