Phillip’s first night in Oklahoma. The calling was steady until the wee hours of the morning when the dew point broke. Started making back to back dry stands, until just before dawn, we set up on a low rise—barely a bump on the map, marked only by a ghost of a contour line. I paced out fifty steps, to place the x24, turned to scan the setup. Through the dark haze, I caught the faint silhouette of our shooters and the glint of the truck like a blade catching moonlight.
I sprinted back. Last stand. Darkness clinging by its fingernails. A lone pup howl, then bird distress.
First coyote came in hard—stopped just long enough. Counted down. Shots cracked.
Switched to pup distress. Second coyote burst through the fence line from the overgrown field. Another volley lit up the morning.
Distant forms began to take shape, as birds began to welcome the light. Tired shooters who rested their eyes driving between stands were not wide awake. We unloaded the other coyotes in the corner of that field for a picture and talked past sunrise.
Out in a distant field, half-swallowed by weeds and time, an old railcar sinks deeper into the earth—rusting under sun and storm. Forgotten by schedules, stripped of purpose. Paint flakes like memory, but it still watches. It once hauled lives in motion—strangers chasing anywhere but here. Now it just sits, and waits. Seasons shifted. People did too.
I ran around until morning, stayed awake all night like time didn’t matter. But it did. The world got louder, faster, more obsessed with meaning. And still the railcar stayed—learning what most of us forget: Stillness isn’t silence. Watching isn’t forgetting.
In the words it was forming—slow, rusted, and quiet—it wouldn’t say much. Maybe just this: “You changed. I noticed."
Sometimes it’s the things we leave behind that remember us best.
“I know the rent is in arrears, the dog has not been fed in years
It's even worse than it appears, but it's alright
Cow is giving kerosene, kid can't read at seventeen
The words he knows are all obscene, but it's alright..
The shoe is on the hand it fits, there's really nothing much to it
Whistle through your teeth and spit 'cause it's alright
Oh, well, a touch of grey, kinda suits you anyway
That was all I had to say and it's alright...'”
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I sprinted back. Last stand. Darkness clinging by its fingernails. A lone pup howl, then bird distress.
First coyote came in hard—stopped just long enough. Counted down. Shots cracked.
Switched to pup distress. Second coyote burst through the fence line from the overgrown field. Another volley lit up the morning.
Distant forms began to take shape, as birds began to welcome the light. Tired shooters who rested their eyes driving between stands were not wide awake. We unloaded the other coyotes in the corner of that field for a picture and talked past sunrise.
Out in a distant field, half-swallowed by weeds and time, an old railcar sinks deeper into the earth—rusting under sun and storm. Forgotten by schedules, stripped of purpose. Paint flakes like memory, but it still watches. It once hauled lives in motion—strangers chasing anywhere but here. Now it just sits, and waits. Seasons shifted. People did too.
I ran around until morning, stayed awake all night like time didn’t matter. But it did. The world got louder, faster, more obsessed with meaning. And still the railcar stayed—learning what most of us forget: Stillness isn’t silence. Watching isn’t forgetting.
In the words it was forming—slow, rusted, and quiet—it wouldn’t say much. Maybe just this: “You changed. I noticed."
Sometimes it’s the things we leave behind that remember us best.
“I know the rent is in arrears, the dog has not been fed in years
It's even worse than it appears, but it's alright
Cow is giving kerosene, kid can't read at seventeen
The words he knows are all obscene, but it's alright..
The shoe is on the hand it fits, there's really nothing much to it
Whistle through your teeth and spit 'cause it's alright
Oh, well, a touch of grey, kinda suits you anyway
That was all I had to say and it's alright...'”
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e>
