The only thing missing was the tin-dlen of the clock that was ever so pretty. But suddenly the day was wound up and everything spluttered to life again, the typewriter trotting, her father’s cigarette smoking, the silence, the little leaves, the naked chickens, the light, things coming to life again with the urgency of a kettle on the boil. There was a great, still moment, with nothing inside it. And she could smell as if it were right beneath her nose the warm, hard-packed earth, so fragrant and dry, where she just knew, she just knew a worm or two was having a stretch before being eaten by the hen that the people were going to eat. Leaning her forehead against the cold and shiny windowpane she gazed at the neighbor’s yard, at the big world of the hens-that-didn’t-know-they-were-going-to-die. The three sounds were connected by the daylight and the squeaking of the tree’s little leaves rubbing against one another radiant. Amidst the clock, the typewriter and the silence there was an ear listening, large, pink and dead. What did the wardrobe say? clothes-clothes-clothes. Her father’s typewriter went clack-clack … clack-clack-clack … The clock awoke in dustless tin-dlen.
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