Morgan_spiehs - Experiment 2 lyrics

Exercise 1 Mid sentence, Anna noticed the men embracing. They sat on the curb, the older man's arm around the younger. The younger man, maybe even a boy, buried his head into his knees. He was sobbing. Anna's feelings about photographing vigils were love/hate to say the least. She felt like a vulture, though she knew she wasn't. But others think she is. Or do they? After seeing the men hugging, she dropped to one knee, placing the camera in front of her eye. She was buried in the crowd. They couldn't see her. Good. The vulture is hidden in the weeds. Through the viewfinder, Anna liked what she saw. The older man's profile was nice. He wore a cowboy hat. Cowboy hats make good pictures. After a few clicks, Anna had her photos and they were front page worthy. Now she had to get their names. This was the hard part. She imagined herself walking up and saying, "Hey there, I know this is a real tough time for ya'll and everything but can I get your names?" It made her shutter. Inserting herself in other people's worst moments was always uncomfortable. Always intrusive. Always tough to do. "That's Tyler's uncle and cousin," a woman said next to Anna. Anna's throat tightened. A tear perched itself on her bottom eyelid. God, this sh** never got easier. "Wow, this community's been through a lot," Anna managed to say. Her throat tightened more. She was unsure whether it was professional to cry. A family in the same community lost a toddler a few months before. Drowned. Her father was nearly within earshot. Anna wanted to call it "our" community. But she couldn't. She had only been here five months. It was too soon. A vulture she remained. Exercise 6 His skin is crimson. Dad's ketchup-colored tan deeps on his check bones and shoulders. Working all day in the Nebraska sun also shows in the size of his arms. His biceps resemble a value size coffee can in diameter. The photo, taken on a family vacation in South Dakota, documents some of the few days he'll leave the farm that year. A hat donning the name of a seed corn provider hides a white forehead where the sun never hits. The dark hair he'll later deny is disappearing shows between the cap and his ears. He hasn't put on sunscreen since he was young enough for his mother to apply it to him. His three children surround him. They worry about his health. His dimpled chin didn't pa** on to any of them. He owns every color that Wal-Mart carries of the Hanes tank top he's wearing. Sometimes mom has to order XXXL sizes to fit his large frame. Dad towers over her by a foot and a half. Wearing the same tank tops everyday gives dad a three-month-long farmer's tan. He is a farmer, after all.