OCR Text |
Show 212 Because now the matted, hulking, earth-colored bison heard. Both of them! Heard and saw! And Hunt could see them shifting their back legs, their hips. "Yeahgghh!" Hunt's sound ripped from goin to belly, belly to chest, chest to throat, voice stitched with bone and blood. He raised his branch; "Run!" he bellowed: "Too close! Run!" And Hunt circled the branch by his head, growling. He was a father! He was a son! He was a shamen on a sandstone cliff in an Indian glyph, eye-to-eye with these amazing bison, in a sketch by Remington, Russel oil. He would -- justjesuspleaseinacrazyway -- die before any other people that he loved vanished from him. He was on the roof. He was in a vision or a dream or some other place, and he was on the roof. At dawn. A painting? Was it . . .? Who? Church? Durrand, Cole, Breughal? The composition seemed familiar. Sky, dwarfing. Light, beamed down in streaks, strange horizontals. W d Hunt - on some jut, some edge in it all. On his roof. Because there was Andi Pierson, getting her paper. And the water company, six men, orange hats, grouped around some compressor, some machine obviously on the street. And there was a family walking dogs. And magpies, flying and in Russian olives. Jet trails, peach colored in the dawn. And other machines . . . that he could see, no jiear, the sounds of. And other groupings. Other animals - hard to tell whether near or far in the village, in Hunt's suburban landscape. And snow, no not snow, impossible, summer, too much light; more likely, light, then, off some surface, pool, looking white. But it was all M s world, his landscape, Hunt's roof. He was on an overlook, on a ledge. And |