Old truck. Abandoned, rusting, listing, rotting away on the side of a Sonoma County road. Gunshot window. That thick, heavy, deadly glass, spidered, like some jelly fish in the slow deep. American-made. Miichigan-strong. You don’t see old Toyotas dying in fields across the West. No. Only our Chevrolets, our Fords. The only fossils left now are called Buick or Dodge. And who built these relics of our former might? Hands. Union hands. Broken now, shattered. This dinosaur belongs in some new museum, where we mourn the extinction of ourselves.

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