In the oncoming lanes, trucks tower over the unchangingly flat topography and form a broken skyline across the plains, shattered bodies of struck hawks fallen along the shoulder. The farms along the Plains are nothing like the engraver's etched cubism of mid-Atlantic fields skewed with powerlines bent into the land's shape; these are unending plots of texture and hue rather than contour and division. Winds on the prairie roar through the panelling of the van and shake us violently and persistently. The constancy of this place is hypnotic.
