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Hueco Tanks Yeats ephemeral scene does not square here nor any husbandry that I know. The urge to populate a venue with delicate and verdant things withers. It would be a job to plow these stones, to plant a boot. And it’s no dolmen, no Irish-rooted monolithic thing; just a big squatting lump with no alignment, no asterism. Perhaps it is exactly all of this that drove some ancient indigent sort to crawl within the hidden crevices and paint so many furry-legged pictograms, whose arms were bristling with spears, or who were chasing things beyond the ken of years. Perhaps it was hearing an indefinable music in that big sky or being desperate to see a flower crack a seam. Perhaps it was a yearning to capture something and make it square, to burst it and find its heart. Perhaps it was the search for the proper plow, the perfect missing syllable. -09- ...

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