“It will be quiet there— in the place where my bones have been conquered by the seasons. Time will pull the deep undergrowth over me, like a shroud, and the snow will become my white sheet. The birds will braid my hair to keep their nests warm, as the wasps and the flies sample my leftovers. And the animals, with every mouthful, between jagged canine teeth, will take turns ferrying me across the River. I, the bones, will be a part of the landscape as the landscape lays claim to all the parts of me.”