A man walks from the stage. Dark. Gloaming. The hiss of some crowd still static in the ears. In a word, James McMurtry. Musical. A slipping poet. A man sent here and there to preach gospel, types of freedom, living’s lust. I celebrate the show, the reason. It peaks and wails. Scatters and drowns. The creeks and rivers but mute roars as language takes stage. Some decide they’d like to be remembered, and so here we are.