Here in the prarie lands, all the rolling hills and cactus and post oak and gnarled mesquite and other thorny tangles that you could ever wish for, I am alone. I sit and dream of all those things that I can never know: the names of snakes in their own toungue, the words to songs that jays and robins sing - "chip chip...chip chip" and all that jazz, the paths that bring the deer and coyote and armadillo and road runner and quail and all those other things that I don't know the name for but that I'm sure have a name for a beastly creature such as myself. I am alone. All these things that move about me watching, watching until I finally - to their relief? - go on my way and disappear across the top of the next hill. Do they miss me? Will their sleep be filled with swirling images of my face and ways? Or nightmares of the noise and smoke and axes and guns and all the things that my coming and that of my bretheren surely mean to these creatures?

Do they dream as I will surely dream of them?