bowed raze he sweeps the hand saw across a plywood plank no longer than the limb that holds it, eyes cast down, his face the melancholy mask of a mother rocking a child that will not slide into sleep, and the sound he coaxes from this instrument bereft of strings is the music a heart makes when sickness slows its swing but cannot rob it of its rhythm. 250814 what's it to you? who go blather from