Wind on High Plains
When Juan expressed his dis-belief in the flying dog we all just looked at him, our faces showing our mockery of his pronouncement. After all, hadn’t we that very night seen it hovering above the grave of Señor Roberto Amate Perez with it’s small wings fluttering and its ears poised as if to hear the dead man speak. If that wasn’t enough for Juan, only two nights earlier when we were all together passing that place where Narcos did what Narcos do, leaving the remains of lives in pieces spilled on the ground, we saw the dog hovering, silently, and mournfully looking down. We all quickly looked away knowing the dog could grieve far better than we could ever hope to. We knew what we had seen and there was no need to confirm it amongst ourselves.
Painting by Steve Muhs, Story by Artotems Co.
It is utterly false and cruelly arbitrary to put all the play and learning into childhood, all the work into middle age, and all the regrets into old age.
“
| — | Margaret Mead |
