12 March 2007, Monday. Daytime moon, one pale slice, above whispy cirrus clouds. Trudging bus, gleam of black SUV. The errors of our ways. Songs played until late--Dick's spread of harmonicas--pulled like musical rabbits from a blue nylon kit bag, The Hoener in C--manifest presence--like a double-decker sandwich--played with the muted wings of his fingers reaching high into the air on either side. Then a tiny one--in D, maybe--bright horizontal wafer--fits in one hand. Melody notes from some old-time trail drive--moon over the Ruby Mountains, a spring somewhere up ahead. Mules tied off just behind a chuckwagon, livestock grazing peacefully in the twilight. Mesquite, sage, chaparral. "The last nomadic herders," his trip to Mongolia. Clumps of soil dug up along the byways of Genghis Khan. Horse just outside the yurt--always ready to go...
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