The Cottonwood Arc

THE FLAME

What it was: a branch from the cottonwood at the edge of the Old Rows, a grey ribbon still knotted in the crook. Whose it was: the woman who put the ribbon in her coat. She brought the branch back. Its stream burns this color in the night — and whatever the flame, every muerto it calms still warms to marigold on the way home.

IN THE HAND

The baseline — steady reach, honest grip.

THE CLAIM

A prize from the Chalk's shelf, fashioned for one hand. It isn't on the open racks: one of the three at the top of the record chooses it, and from then it hangs for them alone. See it on the shelf →