wyoming 1:2
Wind blew hard enough to rip the hair off of cats and from three directions at once, good fortune because if one stopped, the others would blow you down. I could feel my nipples chapping under two layers. My throat felt like bread crust. I drank and drank but stayed too dry to speak. Jack and Jill and I were having a ridiculous picnic near Laramie, one of the world's largest towns, spatially speaking. Gigantic ranches are included in the city limits. The wind picked the Golden Southern fried chicken leg out of Jill's tender fingers, flipped it upwards then across and down hard into Jack's potato salad. He looked to me for support. The wind is hungry, I tried to tell him. I pitched a thighbone above my head, and the wind caught it, whisking it away so we never saw it fall. The kids stared after the bone, then Jill turned her head the other way like she expected the bone to come blowing around from the other side of the world. I looked over that way myself, toward the road. The car rocked like it was possessed. We better go, I thought. These were not my kids.
move on...