Rolls of browned Illinois lean into December, 1980. Once again wind driven rain covers the broad contours with water that curls into hard knots. But hills are strong beasts, unburdened by life astride them. They continue, and wait. Out across the fields a man bends alone. He combs the coarse braids for a sign. An odd shaped stone. A mound of bones. Broken shells of baked clay. Beneath his footsteps, bluffs turn towards another age. Distant barges howl, steaming through a crusted river to their ports. He wonde rs, while the earth carries its floods without question.