Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
Distances by David Chorlton From this loose net of wire in a fence in the rain to that mountain range stretched out in New Mexico takes a long time to cross on horseback or by truck or, for a Swainson’s hawk, a flight that lasts all summer with the frequent landings on poles in between along all the dips and red dirt turns through grass, mesquite and prickly pear beneath a piebald sky. ~ Grazing land lies warm between the foothills in October and the blue miles at the border spread before the mountain on the other side, one long night on foot to this path where a garter snake wriggles on a layer of sunlight. ~ Hawks nobody ever sees inhabit the cool air at the crest, from which a road descends through pine, oak, ash and sycamore until it straightens and continues through desert to sparse populations; ever deeper into the minds of men in cafes stirring sugar into their opinions while the country music station plays the soundtrack to waiting for every sandwich served and there are no short cuts to understanding them.