Ceaselessly you track down one heart,
Ye winter hunter
Tamura Ryuichi: The Thin Line
Grandpa’s nose looked like a beak. A fur hat on his head, through binoculars he browsed the tree crowns seeking dormice. He would shoot them down with an air rifle and later roast them on an open fire, or sit idly by for hours. Or he would squat by the stream, a stout-tailed mermaid tattooed on his forearm, and clean the wheelbarrow with gentle movements.
Over his shoulder a roasted piglet hung wrapped in a white sheet; it was amber and an apple was stuck in its melancholy wide-open mouth.