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Josh Ritter » Wings
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	at night we crossed the border following a Black robe to the edge of the reservation—to Cataldo Mission where the saints and all the martyrs look down on dying converts what makes the water holy she says is that that it’s the closest thing to rain I stole a mule from Anthony—I helped Anne up upon it and we rode to Coeur d’Alene—through Harrison and Wallace they were blasting out the tunnels—making way for the light of learning when Jesus comes a’calling she said he’s coming round the mountain on a train it’s my home—last night I dreamt that I grew wings I found a place where they could hear me when I sing we floated on to Hanford on a lumber boat up river past the fisheries and the milltowns like a stretch of future graveyards she was driven to distraction—said I wonder what will happen when they find out they’re mistaken and the land is too changed to ever change we waded through the marketplace—someone’s ship had come in there was silver and begonias—dynamite and cattle there were hearts as big as apples and apples in the shape of Mary’s heart I said inside this gilded cage a songbird always looks so plain it’s my home—last night I dreamt that I grew wings I found a place where they could hear me when I sing. and so they came with cameras—breaking through the morning mist press and businessmen—tycoons—Episcopal philanthropists lost in their appraisal of the body of a woman but all we saw were lowlands—clouds clung to mountains without strings and at last we saw some people huddled up against the rain that was descending like railroad spikes and hammers they were headed for the border—walking and then running then they were gone into the fog but Anne said underneath their jackets she saw wings
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