Loyal, rolled up in something, seeing through closed eyelids. The stiffening lungs seize, the heart is drowning.
The Indian’s book falls open. He is astonished to see the pages are the great, slanting field. At the top of the field a black scribble of trees, a wall. And through waves of darkening he sees the wind streaming down the slope of land, rolling down the grass, the red awns combing the sunlight, flashing needle stems, the close-stitched earth, the root, the rock.