Next to the power plant today in Morris, Illinois, was a field superheated in the bitter cold of the day and the fog of it was thick, chopping off, floating, trees; the nuclear hot met cold air curling thick as firesmoke but whiter, white down clouds stirred up by the ground, by actions requiring warning sirens that stand like skyscrapers above the flatness of the fields, sharp boxes to power them and radio stations listed to tell you what to do, just in case of fallout, and we parked in front of a sign as we ate sandwiches and potato chips by the picnic tables but we stayed in the heated seats of the car because although we’re silly, we’re not stupid, and shit it was just too cold and barren and plus we’d seen three guys in a pickup truck and even though it said DNR on the side (do not resuscitate, department of natural resources, do not resuscitate) I thought shotgun in the back, or three, and no one’d be there to witness the murder of a white girl and a black girl who traveled all the way to the powerplant’s shadow in a borrowed car to see dead winter prairie and it’s there we see a few birds of prey (bop, bop): one thin and long and wide and the other huskier, bulky with a white breast, and loads of northern flickers on the ground, and around the curve of the road it was quiet and through the trees we could see the truck and the government building and we stopped and were quiet but we left without walking and in Scotland I’m not always confident out in nature but I don’t ever worry about getting shot and buried, sometimes just shot, if it’s culling season.
published PN Review 178
