Home on the Range

Bright sunlight; I shade my eyes with one hand. I stare from my doorway at nothing, really. Or at everything all at once. I close my eyes and it's the same, a mirror image of the bright white, only deep purple, cool blue and golden flashes in my mind's eye now.

I watch the cowboys ride by, sometimes tilting their hats in my direction, sometimes so far in the distance they don't notice me at all. They ride by on their way to do some kind of business, professional-like. Men-ly type things involving cigars and money and horses and motion and time. Things of value. They move quickly; the early bird catches the worm.

I don't have any clocks in the house. Well, that's a lie; I do have one, but it's stopped telling me the time. I couldn't bear to throw it out because it's one of those brass star-shaped ones, or galaxy-shaped ones with pointed edges and planets floating around it. Hard to explain. Hard to let go of. Maybe I'll get it fixed one of these days, but probably not. It may be beyond repair. I still like looking at it, though. But I'm always conscious of the fact that it's not telling me the truth.

I've been feeling strange of late. I go to my bibles which I've kept tucked away. The are dusty now, and I'm sure they'd wonder what I want with them if they could wonder. I'm not sure exactly. Comfort. Reassurance. Meaning. The usual. They feel heavy and sit stiffly in my hands and smell musty. It makes me want to put them back and not look at them again for a while, so that's what I do.

The cats are sleeping soundly on the windowsills. Guarding the house like two obelisks. They go out prowling at night, looking for something to kill. I tried stopping them because of the coyotes, and owls, hawks and snakes, but they won't listen to reason. I've tried. I pet them and snuggle with them while they're sleeping soundly, and they leave me in the night to stalk and prey and do mysterious cat things. I curl up tightly with a pillow between my legs, and leave one candle burning.

The wolves howl, and I have fitful dreams...about wolves, and cats, and pursuit, and retreat, and feeling lost, and fires burning. Empty cars on empty highways, abandoned amusement park rides and whirling dervishes. Everything I've ever known, and things I will never know. Things I will know. My own private theater. I never realize what's playing until I've already bought my ticket. It's a crap shoot. But those are the breaks, I guess.

I dream of fast wimmin, too. In bustling red satin dresses with white petticoats underneath that they lift and swirl about me, blooming like flowers, like red roses and poppies. They are budding and fruitful, and they multiply in droves like buzzing bees. They dance and sing in a circle around me, kicking their legs up high, lifting their skirts, throwing their heads back in laughter, increasing their pace and the pitch of their song.

I awake in the desert again, with chores that need tending and more leaning to get done inside my doorway, watching the day move by.