There happened to be more space to get lost in. Single buildings lingered one or two stories above ground rather than crawl up to the heavens like their metropolitan counter parts; hulking metallic contraptions that swayed on rollers in case the earth quaked beneath them. Here, in these things, you could feel the weather through them. Be the weather in them. They were as much you as you.
Dirt paths cut behind them and into the tall grass. Dogs hurried to nests they carved into mudbanks. And sometimes you could hear the sound of an airplane moving overhead a few minutes before it came into view, the dull buzz a reminder of progress, forward and back.
Light : John Tottenham
Word: Hank Cherry