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The
machine
hunches
on
me
.
AIR
RAID
.
Hit
at
a
lope
,
running
already
down
the
slope
.
Ca
n't
get
back
,
ca
n't
go
ahead
,
look
down
the
barrel
an
'
you
dead
dead
dead
.
We
come
up
outa
the
bullreeds
run
beside
the
railroad
track
.
I
lay
an
ear
to
the
track
,
and
it
burns
my
cheek
.
"
Nothin
'
either
way
,
"
I
say
,
"
a
hundred
miles
...
"
"
Hump
,
"
Papa
says
.
"
Did
n't
we
used
to
listen
for
buffalo
by
stickin
'
a
knife
in
the
ground
,
catch
the
handle
in
our
teeth
,
hear
a
herd
way
off
?
"
"
Hump
,
"
he
says
again
,
but
he
's
tickled
.
Out
across
the
other
side
of
the
track
a
fencerow
of
wheat
chats
from
last
winter
.
Mice
under
that
stuff
,
the
dog
says
.
"
Do
we
go
up
the
track
or
down
the
track
,
boy
?
"
"
We
go
across
,
is
what
the
ol'
dog
says
.
"
