What figures in this clay: gives a sharper bone?
What turns the spirit white? Wanting to abbreviate?
The years in the blood keep us naked to the bone.
Light breaks down the days to printless stone.
—Duane Niatum, from his poem The Art of Clay
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A playa, Oregon, Northern Great Basin, late August 2020. Fake flat stuck “Pronghorn” imported from ? by a company in Pennsylvania called Montana. Two muzzleloader hunters emerge from their fake-foresty hunt-hut — a blind. We chat. Friendly, they say, With you guys here Pronghorn wont come today. Rut season. Thirst season. They go off on their quad hidden behind the BLM’s backhoed mound, to return next day. We go hiking, looking with sky-eyes, juniper-sense, rock-n-rollin’...
