the remains of something that has been destroyed or broken up
He tossed in the old iron bed, and the coiled springs kept squeaking even after he lay still again, calling up humid dreams of black night and loud voices rolling him over and over again like
debris caught in a flood.
Sometimes the Japanese voices came first, angry and loud, pushing the song far away, and then he could hear the shift in his dreaming, like a
slight afternoon wind changing its direction, coming less and less from the south, moving into the west, and the voices would become Laguna voices, and he could hear Uncle Josiah calling to him, Josiah bringing him the fever medicine when he had been sick a long time ago.
He could still see them now—the creamy sorrel, the bright red bay, and the gray roan—their slick summer coats
reflecting the sunlight as it came up from behind the yellow mesas, shining on them, strung out behind Josiah’s horse like an old-time pack train.
become or cause to become undone by separating the fibers or threads of
So Tayo had to sweat through those nights when thoughts became entangled; he had to sweat to think of something that wasn’t
unraveled or tied in knots to the past—something that existed by itself, standing alone like a deer.
The process of weaning had gone on like this for weeks, but the nanny was more
intent on weeds than the lesson, and when Tayo left them, the kid goat was back at the tits, a little more careful this time.
The dry air shrank the wooden staves of the barrels; they pulled loose, and now the rusty steel hoops were
scattered on the ground behind the corral in the crazy patterns of some flashy Kiowa hoop dancer at the Gallup Ceremonials, throwing his hoops along the ground where he would hook and flip them into the air again and they would skim over his head and shoulders down to his dancing feet, like magic.
the main organ of photosynthesis and transpiration in higher plants
Jungle rain had no beginning or end; it grew like
foliage from the sky, branching and arching to the earth, sometimes in solid thickets entangling the islands, and, other times, in tendrils of blue mist curling out of coastal clouds.
They were the same—the mule and old Grandma, she sitting in the corner of the room in the wintertime by the potbelly stove, or the summertime on an apple crate under the elm tree; she was as blind as the gray mule and just as
a bowl-shaped depression formed by the impact of a meteorite or bomb
It was all too alien to comprehend, the mortars and big guns; and even if he could have taken the old man to see the target areas, even if he could have led him through the fallen jungle trees and muddy
craters of torn earth to show him the dead, the old man would not have believed anything so monstrous.
Ku’oosh would have looked at the dismembered corpses and the atomic heat-flash outlines, where human bodies had
evaporated, and the old man would have said something close and terrible had killed these people.