Out on the mesa after a rain, there was more than one of these. Sometimes they make modulated buzzing sounds that come across as human speech just out of comprehension range. Either that, or I have mis-identified the source, there really is a voice I’m hearing, or I’m cracking up the way my mother did. But let’s not go there.
This evil sucker never bothered me. Reconnoitered a few times but knew I wasn’t worth it. Far too little blood! He’s after hippos in the Rio Grande. (The thing is huge, about two inches.) Or maybe it’s a drone from Venus looking for a cow. If so, it needs its sensors cleaned and no wonder you hear tales now of mutilated cats. Hell, the last time I sat on a cow, I was three years old.
John Hamilton Farr lives in Taos, New Mexico, U.S.A. with his classical pianist wife. “Possibly the only place I can get away with this,” he says. As New York Times best-selling author James C. Moore (