myths? The idiocy of watering the bar ditch? The vanity of irrigating this dry land at all? The land where the failures of the nation, the failures of myth, met the failures of men. Where history went to die. Where rivers brimful in April slicked to gravel by August. Where the grass was tough and thick before the plow and ever after dust lifted from the sour, alkali hardpan left in the plow’s wake. A land of ravaging pine beetles, of ever longer summers and shorter, dryer winters. The land itself animated sorrow and anger, birthed and cradled and raised up failure and fear, a raw and righteous
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