We drive, windows down, in this summer steam to the end of a two mile dirt road sitting on the edge of a cotton field. In the rusty roof juke joint, Colt 45s are iced in metal tubs, catfish rolled in cornmeal, cooked in lard. Dirty dancing bows worn cypress floors cuts the blue haze in this one-time sharecropper’s shack. The night rings of bottlenecks sliding over wailing strings, the monochords of a diddley-bow moans of eddie-one-string- jones. It is black water blues that echo out to bloody hands, of old field hollers that answer in this delta night. It is too many that came before me painted the color of blues.