far winds

There is a country beyond that which is known to humankind.

A stray country.

A country that exists west of October.

Whose borders are somewhere between midnight train whistles and the distant howl of a dog.

A country that lies somewhere in the stitched and jittering static between radio stations.

A country that drifts through America like a travelling salesman, but every now and then stops to nest on a small town.

A small church.

A single street.

And maybe, just maybe, some kinda delayed radio broadcast you’ve stuffed in your ears . . .

1987. America. The Suburbs. Old Lady Brogan dies on Halloween trying to light her cigarette. A cigarette held in the mad conquistador grip of a dead woman all Halloween day. A cigarette that falls from her hand as her body is carted away. A cigarette found by two boys who soon after begin being followed by a white plastic grocery sack. A cigarette they can no longer return because it’s been smoked . . . somewhere in Stray Country.