Neith Nevelson looks like a refugee from some war-torn Balkan village. A black cloth wrapped around her body serves as a dress, a scarf adorns her head; her paint-stained hands and perpetually bare feet are browned by the sun and gnarled as tree roots. She sits on her porch in West Coconut Grove, clucking to the chicken she has raised since she found it in a parking lot. The happy hen hops from her lap down into a debris of oyster shells, paint supplies, and wood scraps, making its way to the edge of the worn floorboards, where it threatens to hop out into Brooker Street and join the street parade of scowling young men in ultraclean white T-shirts. When Neith rises to catch the bird she remains bent double, as if under the weight of an... More >>>