The skeleton of winter, pre-spring trees on cold earth. I follow the Illinois River, south from Starved Rock, far too wide for me to swim across. If I tried, I would end in Missouri. This is grey ghost country.
In Cloverdale, the cemeteries run over the horizon. Further, the fields run farther than I can see. I hear the words, “You are all that matters,” and I know the title of the new.