This fuss.

The paper thin walls only veiled the sound of beaten hearts buried underground now and where they couldn't get up they ventured further down. It wasn't until after we missed them that we'd figured it out. The bruised, like birds, all move South with the wind at their backs and with wagging tongues in their mouths. They keep to the shore, afraid that they'll drown if they get caught in the wake and then carried out into the lake bottom feed with the trout; already dead what's this fuss all about?