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"
Where
are
we
?
"
asked
Shadow
.
"
Where
you
were
last
time
,
"
said
Whiskey
Jack
.
"
My
place
.
You
planning
on
holding
on
to
my
Bud
till
it
warms
up
?
They
aren
’
t
good
like
that
.
"
Shadow
stood
up
and
passed
him
the
can
of
beer
.
"
You
didn
’
t
have
a
waterfall
outside
your
place
last
time
I
was
here
,
"
he
said
.
Whiskey
Jack
said
nothing
.
He
popped
the
top
of
the
Bud
,
and
drank
half
the
can
in
one
long
slow
swallow
.
Then
he
said
,
"
You
remember
my
nephew
?
Harry
Bluejay
?
The
poet
?
He
traded
his
Buick
for
your
Winnebago
.
Remember
?
"
"
Sure
.
I
didn
’
t
know
he
was
a
poet
.
"
Whiskey
Jack
raised
his
chin
and
looked
proud
.
"
Best
damn
poet
in
America
,
"
he
said
.
He
drained
the
rest
of
his
can
of
beer
,
belched
,
and
got
another
can
,
while
Shadow
popped
open
his
own
can
of
beer
,
and
the
two
men
sat
outside
on
a
rock
,
by
the
pale
green
ferns
,
in
the
morning
sun
,
and
they
watched
the
falling
water
and
they
drank
their
beer
.
There
was
still
snow
on
the
ground
,
in
the
places
where
the
shadows
never
lifted
.
The
earth
was
muddy
and
wet
.
"
Harry
was
diabetic
,
"
continued
Whiskey
Jack
.
"
It
happens
.
Too
much
.
You
people
came
to
America
,
you
take
our
sugar
cane
,
potatoes
and
corn
,
then
you
sell
us
potato
chips
and
caramel
popcorn
,
and
we
’
re
the
ones
who
get
sick
.
"
He
sipped
his
beer
,
reflecting
.
"
He
’
d
won
a
couple
of
prizes
for
his
poetry
.
There
were
people
in
Minnesota
who
wanted
to
put
his
poems
into
a
book
.
He
was
driving
to
Minnesota
in
a
sports
car
to
talk
to
them
.
He
had
traded
your
’
Bago
for
a
yellow
Miata
.
The
doctors
said
they
think
he
went
into
a
coma
while
he
was
driving
,
went
off
the
road
,
ran
the
car
into
one
of
your
road
signs
.
Too
lazy
to
look
at
where
you
are
,
to
read
the
mountains
and
the
clouds
,
you
people
need
road
signs
everywhere
.
And
so
Harry
Bluejay
went
away
forever
,
went
to
live
with
brother
Wolf
.
So
I
said
,
nothing
keeping
me
there
any
longer
.
I
came
north
.
Good
fishing
up
here
.
"
"
I
’
m
sorry
about
your
nephew
.
"
