by Nick Black Jakob Owens The men walk without talking. Many I don’t know but here to my right is Porlie, trusty Porlie, Porlie who I’ve known since we were 12. I’ve never liked Porlie. Whenever I look over, he’s mopping his face, handkerchief bunched in plump, soft, pale hands. Could hands like those pull a skull in two? I think not. I don’t even know if skulls are designed that way, or I’m confusing them with coconuts. The posse’s spirits lift with every trill of birdsong.