Driving through these flat lands I was reading Flatlands, a sci-fi novella about a 2-dimensional world. If this van sunk down to eye level with the asphalt, if there were no sky, we would see only lines of bright and dim, golden and green, shades and sound. Kansas, a world of cloud shadows. But time would still be. Time, kept by the beat of our hotel lobby fan, kept by the devotion of Cano’s hands to the game and to God and to aluminum cans.
There is a sky though, where birds are making music for golden hour. I sit still and listen. This gentle music of violence and pride. One bird torpedos another. They screech. A feather flies. I follow the feather and catch it in two hands after a long float down over telephone lines.