Thomas Doty – Storyteller


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Above a stone chair, in the high desert near Tule Lake, sun and moon paintings of vision pepper the walls of this cave.

I imagine sitting here on July 4, 1054, the last night of my Modoc quest for identity. At sunrise the stars flicker out. Except one. All day, under the desert sun, this lone star flares near the curve of the moon. For more than 300 days natives watch the supernova with as much spirit as a sports fan sings "the rockets' red glare" at a ball game on the Fourth of July.

Now I sit in the stone chair. I imagine the sun and the moon and the star. Like fireworks, they explode in my dreams for a lifetime.