Take place. Begin with how it smells. Recall other smells and selves. Paradise lost. Iowa dirt farmer roads. Sally’s bra on the line, alone in the wind. Riding mules in Appalachia. Riding the horses out into the fields to gather up and herd the cows back to the barn. You cannot go back. Every place you have ever seen, every place where you stumbled drunk into Waffle House and don’t shoot up in the booth, wherever the place was, it was over. The people you thought were your friends all loathe you. They can’t stand the sight of you. They turn away. I never knew them. They all seem to be painfully aware that they are, every last one of them, horrified to see what they had become, crows, we are all crows, they stay and they stay and they stay the entire fucking winter.