Sewing Shut My Eyes

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Itty “The Human” Snibb encountered the face of god, or at least the wed all-star notions of sublimity and the transcendental signified, at somewhere around thirty-three thousand feet above and about six miles due west of a point roughly triangulated by the towns of Iron Lightning, Thunder Butte, and Faith, South Dakota, in a part of that fortieth state so mind-numbingly flat you could in all likelihood get out of your car on the two-lane highway there in the early afternoon, unzip your bowling ball pouch, and begin rolling that ball in an easterly direction, get back in your car, drive ahead twenty miles, stop, get out, sit by the side of the road and partake of a pastrami sandwich, a beer, even a lengthy nap, and before nightfall probably catch sight of that ebony orb revolving slowly toward you silhouetted by a stunning sunset colored mandarin orange and frog green with dust airborne by the continual and sometimes pushy Great Plains breeze.

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