The Herrings

The dried herrings hang from the smoke-blackened rafters. It is possible that consciousness is indestructible. Have the herrings counted the straws they cannot see in the thatching above their tails? Are they afraid of the spear with a detachable hook? Should they stare into the embers of the charcoals below? Is there a great famished brown bear awakening from hibernation and walking through the birch forest in the snow? Will the herrings dream tonight of the dark blue waters of the northern sea, as if staring into an unimaginable kingdom that only exists in folktales? Is hanging upside down the correct posture for thought? Why have they left those smoking charcoals unattended? And what are foxes?