Goats, logjammed in the road, are led on leashes, to the market, to be bought and slaughtered. Is there a spicy pinch of suspicion in each bleat? Or hate? In English or Amharic, the animal's stuttering remarks
"I don't do that through the spine business. Just one hook through the lip. He gently drags on his cigar; his finger-pincers steady, while their lines lie, strands of honey lifted from the dark wine of the river.