by Rachel Walker Raychan/Unsplash Carrots bleed their sugars to the grater. In the half-light from the kitchen window, ants crawl over the table, licking up crusted honey. We sweep carrot peels out the front door. Eggs come in on the sorting belt, clumped in dirt and shit and little feathers, dragging cobwebs from the shadowy corners of the laying house. Sometimes the shells are so soft they break in my hand. Some come smeared with too much blood to clean: these are for us. I