Postcard to Eduardo
Leaving Dickinson, ND on 94W with the sun rising at our backs, a tractor trailer in front and from the height of my vision, from nowhere, from heaven a wine-soaked handkerchief, trailing its edges, falls as quiet as a bruise into the next lane over—a barn swallow caught in the truck’s wash. They once lived in caves, but now make their nests in man-made shelters, under bridges and barn eaves— barns where might be kept a horse’s harness, the parts of which you recited to me once—crupper, martingale, throatlatch—rolling your r’s, lashing those words lavishly for all they’re worth. I’ve since been told one should always keep the throatlatch nice and loose.