The arms, legs, heads were covered in clay but their bodies hadn't decayed. They were trapped in ice, transparent, clean. That is the role of bodies. To be seen. That is the role of children. To sit quietly counting coins. To brush the long blonde hair of their sister (mother.) To not be heard. The dead leaves of trees are too loud. Crunching under- foot. Who am I to investigate? To take samples of hair and skin. To match DNA and finger- prints. No, the ice should not melt. As it struggles to survive in the sunlight. The bodies thaw. Heart first. And I am trapped. plunging the secrets of rope around throat. Of stab wounds and bullet sites. And the blood is so cold. So very cold and unforgiving, unmissable, uncharted, until my hands slice, sift, silence.