Who is that figure I see at the top of the street? There's
something damned familiar about the long coat flapping
in the desert wind, the flat, wide-brimmed hat, the cigar.
Why do the rattlers scuttle away into the undergrowth
at that first, throat-tightening, flute intro?
Musta gotten offa the noon train.
Welcome back, Matt.
Scottie B.