Weather can be revelatory.  It may be a mother of recapitulative archaeology.  Wander through rhus michauxii crawling over solid framings, rain-leached denim hemmings, lip-sticked rear-view espejos, petrified leaves and pig knuckles, hickory sticks split and fitted with creek-polished pound stones bound with knee tendons, painted with blood of misguided deliveries; crucifixes with teeth marks, t'bones, panties, the mummy of a salt-cured leper white as snow.

Air pressure, the tía of warfare, maybe, drought, the diffidence of roses

Fofo took the obedient 14:20 to Mosul, then the CW bus, and hacked his way through the Judas trees, slogged through the bones of children, clumps of deciduous shrapnel, a dump of inscriptions, some carved on marble or stone slabs and some impressed upon bricks, tallies upon clay cylinders or six- and eight-sided prisms, barrels and tablets used, when still moist, for dunning, then afterward baked in a kiln. But foremost he was thinking of how to staunch the misplacements of only, how they belie inertia and light.