Help! We have been lassoed into a J.J. Cale song & cannot find our way out. No matter how many cattle we push, creeks we cross. Every morning, we wake up like the snow on the mountain. Which is to say, under a bright trance. Somehow steady. Like your hand or the moon. Our hearts go moo. This part of the trail— you can call it fate or a preposition. The cruel square dance, a corner a season. Rope. It’s where we’re always at.