They told a story of quicksand. They said to come back later in the
day. When dusk was called, the sun stayed in the sky. The alphabet
was trying to spell a word. There only was a Scrabble board to
move the story forward. And all that needs to be said before
sundown. The slug listened. The bass and minnow. They stopped
at Joe Fred’s garage. But the engine was not ready. The otter and
walrus in their fins and gills changed the oil. They wore large eyes.
They invited them to supper. The otter looked at the menu. The
camel, the hare, the coney, the swine [whatsoever has not fins and
scales you cannot eat]. The insects listened when they were not
squabbling. They chattered with news of a prosperous year. When
it is your turn, you draw your letters. They spell nothing you want
to say. All you know is you are in a reliable world. Or were at one
time. But irreverence happens without pleasure and there you are
on open range. The Texas flatland is overcoming its loneliness. It
speaks to the clouds that pass, though they ignore the flatland.
They have their own friends they follow.