A lone gull in a South Dakota parking lot tells me the water in the thunderclouds weighs more than all the gold stolen from the Black Hills.
It says that because sin compounds faster than interest, the blood money in Federal bank accounts can never be enough to buy land that wasn’t for sale.
The gull says greasy grass grows greenest where Custer’s blood flowed.
Taking wing, the gull prophecies that the granite faces will crack, that monuments built on lies will crumble to dust.
Thunder roars. Wind-blown gravel lashes my face.
A wall of water climbs over the hill.