Even at one hundred and ten with the John Butler Trio on loud you can still hear the cicadas when the window’s down. Above the Christian Revival Camp a swelling thunder cloud proclaims God’s muggy country. Repeater stations, the tallest flowers in the forest, transmit the Word. At the crossroads the sky sweats, a house stands biblically alone in
the clearing — under its stilts lies the snake and in the frangipani’s shade. Kanaka ghosts stack dry- stone walls, Brahmins chew the cud deep in their Deep North and mango sellers splash the cane’s
green world. Suddenly the traffic is stopstart in mist. Over the slippery ridge, a chain collision: five new wrecks, metal rainbows, blood- warm air.