The snow makes no sound as it covers the dome like gauze and insulates it—so you leave it there. You spread the last fresh straws and wonder how much longer ‘til you’re found. At night you dream you’ve drowned.

The birds like the snow (judging from the changing pitch of their caws) better than the sky it hides: red and crowned with black clouds. A parrot gnaws your finger. You check the feed and pause—was that an engine or a landslide? Is someone else around? Nobody ever comes.

You remember the far-off noises you’d taken for saws, then your husband still and staring on the ground, the sky gone mad. You stole the grain, supposing no more laws. It’s not much, but it’s something:

you’ve saved the birds. So far, anyway, from radiation, from starving, from the predators that come around less and less often. The silent constant snow is your applause.