Dusk. Dark descending slowly, the horizon a vague shimmer of something unseen. An old knotty oak tree, bare limbs scratching the reddish skyline. It all looked bleak and bleary to Tom Winston as he rocked with the wind on his motorcycle. It was that indistinct time between daylight and darkfall, and he had slowed in awe of the Mississippi delta landscape, a flat portrait in amber mystery.
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