When the autumn sun sinks, its redness through the gray clouds is like strips of burning lava pushing their way to the sea. When it burns out, the wind rises like the saddest blues blown from a sax in a lean-to juke joint. It lifts its head to give a long neigh toward the vast sky, kicks its hooves and then gallops in a flash across the cotton fields. Now darkness falls into the shimmering of lights from villages dotting the flatland.
a freight train chugging
across the Yazoo