The Crane Wife (in print, Spanish, trans. by Ángel Valenzuela)
She is barely discernable from the color of snow except for the lick of red pressed against her skull. It looks as if someone has blessed her. Her body is shuddering, making soft breaks in an otherwise expansive stillness. The beak is half buried, weakly trying to toss off the cold. There is nothing in this place, a hollowed field of unbearably placid white. Even his own presence is barely
marked, pressing only lightly against the snow. There is only her labored breath, the unmeasured rise and collapse of a feathered chest, a sudden impulsive twitch in the blade of a bent wing, itsboning limp and destroyed. He picks her up, massages the wing back into place. She is warm where she is broken.