CHRIS REPPUCCI

The many pods across the littered landscape open slightly to reveal the cream center within, soft gas wafting from the aperture and sweet must perfume seeping from the slit accompanying delightfully muffled whimpers. Listening closely four separate pitches can be discerned from the cries, one sounds like the source of wind, a kind of primeval squeal or porpoise thoughts lifting through a silent gale in white night; another the result of winds in the local environment, such a