The image of a cellar entrance keeps coming back to me. My ancestors live in dugouts and dung brick homes on the prairie before building brick ones with full basements for when the next funnel cloud might come along to suck up life into its elephant trunk.
We were a burrowing population of that purely horizontal landscape with such an excess of sky that rewarded us with such views of distant galaxies that mountains and towers hide in order to put on their shadow puppet shows with jewels of office lights and necklaces of slithering rivers. Flat landers have a curious view of the vastness of the universe that they see so clearly but seems ever more out of reach. Except when the heavens reach down with a hellish force. To tap the vein of the Milky Way and let it irrigate and drench the thrust of long horns. Drenched in a streaming pool of stars we know the blue heat not until it vaporizes us with the thrust of Wagner providing the appropriate soundtrack to let us become a creek of light. Let the mud puddle fill with lave and reconcile the sky’s tartness and the prairie’s dull, frayed buttons of remorse.