Tuesday, October 28, 2008


Bleachers thrust metallic and alien into the tall, yellowing grasses of Montana’s high plains. They curve their shape along the future site of a Sun Dance. I am surrounded by a group of people speaking. I cannot hear them, but I see their mouthshapes blossom and twist: The wind floods everything. I try to speak, but the sound is lost to the unbroken sky and the nothingness beneath windsong. The voice of the wind surges through me. It is everything here, both silence and sound. One voice splits into several, moving furiously parallel to each other, an invisible cluster of desperate cries. The rawness of it erupts around me, my body humming with torn directions. I am seventeen and have never felt this close to something. I want to be alone with it. To take it home, to fill my empty nights in a suburban apartment building. My mouth opens, and I taste cerulean on my tongue, with a darker shade of violet. I let the wind sing to me, listening to its language. I move with its waxes and wanes, dancing to desolate melodies that only I understand.