The meadowlark sings from the fencepost. It is gold and black and then it is off. Now a spot in the sky, now gone. ****** ********* squints beyond it toward the horizon, where the sun hangs large and orange, harvest-moon size almost, seeming closer somehow. There is a normal thirst that pulls on your sleeve and asks to have a drink of water, and then there is the thirst that can’t talk because its mouth is stuck shut. His horse was thick with lather and stank. ******’s mind would start on about water, and then he would see the well by the tree, and then he would see his house, and he would see his bed, and his wife would be coming in with her brown hair fixed up so that only a little was falling down, and she would tell him to sit up and sip. The spell broke when he found himself squeezing his throat. He was back on the prairie, on his horse, staring at the sun. Then he was back to thinking about ******** again.
