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Show Which is the same as every other place on Malpais. Tiede smoking above, and at my feet, in the dust, footprints. Some of them I made a moment ago. Some I made many years ago. Nothing changes here, though there are slight variations on ancient themes. There are, for instance, these other footprints. The animal that made them was just here. It licked the back of my hand and looked at me with its huge deer-like eyes, its pointed ears for once flopped down at the side of its head. It was seeking confirmation of what it had only heard on the wind below. That I was joining it in lonely exile. And if I had turned my hand outward, given it the salty flesh of my palm, I know it would have stayed beside me forever. But I did not make the gesture. I did not come here to die, only to say goodbye. I have a long journey ahead of me. I am preparing myself. The Canary dog has moved away now. It stands at a careful distance, as motionless as I, the two of us frozen in our poses like lunar statuary. Slowly, very slowly, our shadows are getting longer. And I am listening to the music: the sound of America. Here, on this silent plain of lava and dust, I can hear it best. |