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Henry could be anywhere right now.

I haven’t seen him in months.

I got a job in Salem and have not returned the Market since I moved to Oregon to hang with the Pranksters and write a story or two, like dear old Uncle Kesey.

By this time, Henry could have taken off for New York and hopped a jet to London and a train under the Channel to Paris where he is shaking hands and winking at women and saying in a clear-throated honesty, “what a day, what fine fine day.” And after all his travels, Henry may have finally found his way to Odessa. Back to the farm and the cages of grey and white chickens. The dust is laying low below the slow-coming rain. Henry is moving exactly how he’d like to, standing where he likes and listening to the muttering silence of the world around him. He can hear everything and nothing else.

Henry stands straight and looks at the color of the sky. He sees it exactly how it is. And everything is exactly how it should be and nothing was ever taken from him.

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