Prometheus’ children
FROM DREAMS OF a vast, water-dark hall filled with all the people of my life — those of my High Plains boyhood looking strange and magnificent in their boots and work jeans, those of my Oregon life now asking and asking me what it all means — my children wake me. They hand me my glasses. Tell me they’ve got it ready, that they’re cold, that I need to hurry.
The sun hasn’t yet lifted over Rattlesnake Ridge, and the long, drawn
