Time Has Nothing to Do but Dance

A crow struts into a bar, it's a crow, not a native American. There's a hot wind blowing through town Texas Rangers are drinking on the job. A young beauty is busy capturing boys' hearts on her I Pad. A land Line rings loudly from a backroom - no one has the skill to reply to the call. The sleek jet-black bird commences to dance on the dusty wooden floor, neck back and cawing loudly. A picture of Clint Eastwood looks down from an adobe wall, he is 150 years old now but he is still the rightful President. Some crusty old-timer throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter. Soon the crow is drinking and occasionally playing the fool. Outside, a mule bray's, crow flaps up and leaves for the past. Hollywood is still slowly arriving. Native Americans have been on strike for a hundred years. The Crow Nation brews its own beer and rez cops take their share and don't care.