If I can't jump, just push and shove

Disquieting dream of the night: a series of murders somewhere wintry and granite-cragged, children disappearing from the moors over the years just as if a hawk stooped down and took them, all those little bones shining up there in the dark. I knew in the dream it was Zeus, like the eagle with Ganymede, only without the cupbearing immortality. It didn't matter if I could tell where they were lying, snow on flat hipbones, bracken in their ribs, I couldn't promise there wouldn't be any more. Their deaths weren't even a goal. Just only in poetry does anyone turn into flowers or springs except by decomposition.

It's cold as autumn in this kitchen. I'm seriously considering putting on a sweater.