. . .flared starburst . . . brick homes fade into corn fields . . . prairie falcon buffeted on the wind, playfully, on the hunt . . . cattle carriers burrowing into the western horizon . . . replicants . . . spring ditches delivering water . . . bald eagles banging under spotlights, large trees wintering along the South Platte . . . the Wyocolo Hotel . . . cold war missle silos hidden beneath the living prairie . . . train whistle at a far crossing . . . prairie dogs clanging through machinery . . . beets sunning on loose sand . . . curved irrigation tubes piled at the corner of a field . . . silos and train tracks whipping low snow . . . people driving in from miles away, smaller towns, for the Main Street cruise in Fort Morgan, a continuous loop parade, down to the block before the railroad tracks, turn right, and an immediate left in the short block that leads to the old brick Amtrack station, a quick U-turn then a right and a left and you're northbound, again . . . trailed off into incompleteness . . . other freedoms . . . modest houses creep around fields in big circles . . . too thick to drink, too thin to plow . . . far watercourses delivering earthern richness to spring ditches . . . plywood goose blinds dotting winter fields . . . pickups lurch on broken asphalt . . . tumbleweeds converge on final approach.