The night John Prine died we went out to the backyard to look at the pink moon, a blinding fresh full April moon named for the phlox and cherries in bloom, and it was something like when the coyotes woke us with their singing, just outside our tent, and in our half-sleep we marveled at all the fear and wonder – or when we realized the dead possums on the side of the interstate were actually armadillos, because we were really in the South, now, and I dreamed about hanging myself among the Spanish moss, preserved in the humidity with heavy bees surrounding me, halo-like – and then we saw the trees, split like telephone poles and hollowed out by lightning, twisted by cyclone winds, and all I could think was what John might have said about that cotton-candy love-making moon and those suicidal fucking armadillos and those clumsy bees and contorted trees – and maybe I’ll go back inside and listen to Sweet Revenge just one more time and maybe we’ll drive out to Kentucky Lake and I’ll lie on my back in the dark water naked and maybe I’ll look at the moon – and float for just a little while longer.