Hawk Season Notebook #287
Depopulated Plains. The best career move: pensive silence. Crayons remain. Put on your Sunday-best Stetson. Press hard on thick paper. Crosshatch night. Hours of blue on black. Below that the High Plains. A lone yard light left at an abandoned, water-gone ranch. Presences left behind... snaggle-tooth gravestones... broke fences... cow and horse ribs. Presences invoke late 19th century songs. Hymns. Chants. Inquiry songs. Whatever Became of sorts of dark songs of blood and sorrow. All the obvious suggestions were followed... into rafter-rope suicide barns.