WHITE

CRANES

by Bob Waltrip

Adrian and I ride toward the river in my old Chevrolet sedan. There are arrow-weeds along the dirt road, and the sun behind the darkening mountains on the other side of the river reflects through the broken windshield and shines into my eyes. Sweat is running down my sides from my armpits. The dirt road toward the river's shore is deeply rutted, and the old car bounces and rattles loudly, flapping its left front fender. An occasional rabbit runs across in front of us, wiggling between arrow-weed stalks and disappearing. A covey of quail, looking like silly women in plumed hats, run along before us, weaving from side to side, reluctant to take to the air. Damp hot river air hangs over us like a cloud. The smell of the weeds is in the car mixed with the catfishy-crawdaddy odor of the river.

Adrian sits against the door smoking, with an insolent curl to his lips, hanging his right arm out the window. He wears levis and a T-shirt, with tennis shoes whose shabby appearance would disgrace any court in the world.

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