These look like crosses kneeling against the dying sun. I mutter this to myself at first and then say it loud. And then I shout it because we are driving 79 mph in an 18-year-old vehicle across the hot prairie with every window open.
THESE . . . #$% CROSSES . . . *bleep*bleep* DYING SUN!
Hewhohaslivedmanyadyingsun laughs. My glum gloom doesn’t get him down. Tomorrow, he is sure, I will see the windmills for what they are: windmills, that’s all.
And he is sure I will have a new outlook once we get to where we are headed–into the middle of nowhere, because this wide-open space has always been the center of everything for me.
I am not so sure time spent in open country will cure what ails me. I’ve been so angry lately.
Somewhere in my forest, all the trees are down. And all my horses, gone. And there are dead bugs on the windshield, dark spots in my sky.