These galloping marauders intoxicate the shaman of the Crowes.  He speaks of black dogs spitting diamonds on red magik floors.  To the wind divulge the murmuring spooks in the derelict house on a hill.  Batten down in this Missouri maelstrom, as the faithful gather beneath the blackening, offering a death prayer in heaven’s orchard.  Goodbye Ruby dances aflame in propane funk.  Coming down, twisting a slow and meditative mirage into an interplanetary tapestry sewn by axe-wielding saviors. 

Dawn, and the firefly drone surveys, circling a waking mass collecting at the edge of the world, fishing for rainbow trout.  One is calling lightning again, bolts kissed by Jimi that seize in cosmic pudding then release, as those black dogs spit more diamonds.  These four wild boys ride in choking dust, fixing a unified gaze on a monolith rising.  They enter the coliseum, laying tribute at the muddy feet of the Alligator Bride.  Then, astride their crazy horses, they are gone, lighting out for the coast.

Get under the wheels.  Listen to Howlin Rain.