by Don Thompson Wind and rain have blurred the pictographswith spit and a calloused thumb,trying to rub them out. And yet remnants persist, ghostlyhematomas that must’ve been lurid once,and minimalist fauna,a few daubs so dead-on a child could name them:turtle, condor, antelope. Coyote eating the moon. Those and that weeping, hairy maneveryone calls Sasquatchwith shoulders hunched and claws pendant,an image Read More