The pure black hearts of crows will still be raving long after the dark factories down by the river have folded up. And the superstitious women that live just outside of town don't leave grains of rice on their doorsteps each evening for nothing.
My mother used to sell me away to the gypsies that crept up to our back porch. In those formidable years I was quite crafty and would eventually find my way back home. The dog would forget who I was by then. My mother calling him off as she wiped her hands against the bloody apron.