Today there were jackrabbits, and Killer nearly gave himself whiplash watching them go rocketting into the brush. He had his tongue hanging so far out of his grin that I was half afraid that it was going to flap back and slap me in the head while I was re-stringing the guitar there in the back seat. I had found another E-string on the floor wrapped around a warm bottle of Cherry Coke and a couple of plastic spoons from Dairy Queen. I wiped the crud and dust off it and stretched it up the neck of the guitar while Killer rubbernecked and drooled into the wind.
Now the sun is going down and the light is getting long and red. I'm tuned up and picking out a melody just as it comes to me. Elvis isn't saying a thing, but I can see him nodding a little in time.
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