Coronadoover the green fur of the prairie to the trough of the Arkansas. A red-tailed hawk cries over the eye of a dustdevil, and buzzards wheel above skulls in the yellow evening. Still he clings to the gold thighs of his dream. Quail's call sweetens the wind as the horses drink. At his gesture the noisy array strikes back for a knoll to the south. Leaves of bluestem grease water- taut bellies as the sun fades to a dark hide full of stars. __Steven Hind
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