The light yesterday was like nothing I'd ever seen in the area, soft and muted, close and confidential. The landscape offered itself up to our gaze.
Inside, Miss Ida Lane played piano. A tin bowl on top of the piano caught water dripping through the ceiling. Ken had printed song sheets so all of us together sang Wabash Cannonball, The Yellow Rose of Texas, Uncloudy Day, Angel Band and everyone's favorite, Waltzing Matilda.
I heard New Jimmie built the windmills below, or the facsimiles of windmills, in the back of the Palms. Whatever they are they are haunting in this photo. Considering the behemoth wind turbines dominating the landscape far to the east these seem like the doing of cargo cults.