As our flight lifts, the ploughing commences for corn and okra, that crop of crone fingers pointing.
Wings fly in the cabin.
Men and women wear jackets with wings. Soon I drink from a winged cup, eat with a winged fork and spoon, call a woman with wings on her breast, press a winged napkin to my mouth. Aloft along a line rising, a home run going going, out of the Black Warrior watershed. In that harrowed place, a red acre meets a stair that bears a body on its slight descent. Driven . . .