Rename the Constellations

It takes the vast Western sky to trigger inspiration sometimes, or rye whiskey. The campfire chewed away at her meal of gambel oak and, since the prairie falcons were asleep, did so with no regard to the noise she was making.

I rolled an ice cube around my teeth and a wave of mountain air spoke to the buckgrass. I heard it, as we all did. The Milky Way was a cloud bank. The coyotes chattered and yawed.

The constellations have names and patterns arcane. Four or five stars became a warrior pushing a broken cart over a snowy hill while being pursued by a unicorn. We called it Tony.

The monsoon built fortresses of steam every afternoon and shot sparks through our sockets. One day, the mountains spilled a heavy cloud down the valley in front of the Dirt See'r, covered our alluvial plain with ice, and shot the well tanks out of the ground.

My friend stumbled among the sage, drunk on abomination, radiant in the oranges and reds of evening.