from the Journals of the Claxton Brothers, ca. 1843.
After experiencing what we’d come to call “the Plunge,” we traveled the familiar creekbed back toward our cabin. On departing for the hunt the water flowed strong, securing our wagon deep in its tow. It was dry now, the entire wagon missing. And our homestead, hewn of stone, carefully plugged and plastered, now displayed gaps and cracks, with dust and moulder monitoring its decay. Having left just hours ago at the tail-end of night, how could things have altered so? As if ages and drought, plunder and wear all visited here meanwhiles. Window given over to darkness, the entrance as open and vague as a ghost.