It was the end of a long day in the patch when I showed Bob my new cowboy hat. I bought it in a western shop in Kildeer, up the line from Dickinson near Teddy Roosevelt's old haunts. I wanted to know what style it was, where it hailed from. Bobby was the eldest of a crew of Navajo carpenters from Arizona, a place better known for it's cowboy accouterments than any existence they might eke out there.
Age wise, I was an elder, too, which may be why he tolerated my company. Bob sat still and eyed the prize, measuring it's weight and brim before he answered. It had a presence, no doubt.
Just what I thought. Texas - damn straight - and a 10X besides. That means it's tall and sturdy and can't be blocked no more. Made of straw like a working man would wear, with a resin
coat to make it stand up and dyed white against the noon day heat. It fit good and snug so it
wouldn't blow away nor fall off in a tumble.
On the other hand, Bob wore a modest black-felt number, from
when hats were as common as belts and suspenders. A 4X; far more pliable, so
to give with the wind yet deflect the hard rain. Its slightly vague shape had
shifted many times.
I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of
those city crows that live where I come from, found in the alley next to
my door
just before I started on this journey. I kept it resting on the cowl
of my Dodge 360 until that very day - I stuck it in the
band for a little
bit of luck. Cocked a little sideways, it had that hat have an outlaw
flair.
That's when I confided to Bob how them city crows would squawk and fuss, in
their
city crow dialect.
Sometimes, I told him, I'd talk back, or ask a question directly, in a tone
of
voice or just the way I'd look. They'd turn their
heads to eye me up, make some raspy call to alert their fellows, then
resign themselves to clucking sounds, as though to chide me ... or, maybe
they were just sad.
Bob
looked at the feather, me waiting, while neither of us spoke. After a time he declared it was medicine - it
could even cure
cancer!
That's a good thing, I figure, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot
more lately, you know?
a hawk moth sips
it's last bit of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale
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