What is death’s music? One note or many? The chord of contagion? Thus questioned the undertaker, the cup three-quarters empty in his gloved hand. He who marks the sparrows’ fall has no time for my birds, said ApLlewelyn. What music is death? What should I know of the music of death who am no longer the keeper of birds? ApLlewelyn vanished into the second quarter of the grave. I, I slew your birds, said the undertaker to the vanishing man.

The butcher was dead meat. Let me answer your platitudes, said the butcher’s wife, scrubbing the surface of the double hole in the earth. I was love, I am dead, and my man still walks in me.

What is death’s love? said the undertaker to the woman. Let me answer your platitudes, said the grocer’s wife. I was dead, I am love, and my man still treads in me. They who filled and were filled, in a two-backed death, filled the third quarter.

And Tom Twp, counting his fingers at the edge of their acre, found a tenth miraculous finger, with a nail red as blood and a clear half-moon. Death is my last finger, said Tom Twp, and dived into the closing grave.

So Mr. Montgomery was left alone, by the desolate church, under a disappearing moon. One by one the stars went out, leaving a hole in heaven. He looked upon the grave, and slowly removed his coat.