Taylor Sheridan (2017)
Snow and silence are the sacred inheritances of a misplaced nation. Wyoming whispers poetry of fallen daughters; the wind its cruel messenger. Fathers fire at ghosts, and mothers claw at embedded demons. The cold is the ultimate captor. A force unobtainable and innocent. Temperature lands the final blow to the lost, but the slaughter begins in human hands.
Cory has crafted his instincts into a profession. His hunger for detail hidden in the entropy of the wilderness leads him to fashion his own ammunition. The delicate game of measurement arrests his mind from the visions of the gunpowder's target. He is a hunter of murderers. Beasts that kill private property, livestock that mean survival to their owners.
A lethal shepherd gliding on snow banks, Cory tracks another mountain lion who has ate the wrong meal. This job will slant his trajectory backwards to the site of his own nightmare. The hunt will provide second chances dripping in remorseful redemption.
An outside hunter joins the raid. Her heels scuffle in the snow slurry as she all but apologizes for her arrival. Yet her presence equates to federal aid, aid that will bring an army to fight injustice. Jane does not belong here, but she will. Trained and sturdy, she understands depravity, but not the desolation of the Reservation.
Wind River is a purgatory between heritage and imperialism. A white blanket of inactivity pounds the wills of the Natives to the ground. They breath polluted air that encourages one to settle. Opportunities are present, but only if you want to go to another planet. A funnel of appropriation surrounds the territory and the young are high off the fumes.
A pair of grief-stricken fathers stand on a porch. Tragedy is the wall gradually erected between them and their wives. They speak in cautious spurts. Their eyes do not communicate. Their heads face into an envied oblivion. Comfort is delivered by stubborn chiseling, and compassion requires tangible force. Every soul appears widowed by the layers of jackets concealing brittle physiques.
Snow and silence are the sacred inheritances of a misplaced nation. Wyoming whispers poetry of fallen daughters; the wind its cruel messenger. Fathers fire at ghosts, and mothers claw at embedded demons. The cold is the ultimate captor. A force unobtainable and innocent. Temperature lands the final blow to the lost, but the slaughter begins in human hands.
Cory has crafted his instincts into a profession. His hunger for detail hidden in the entropy of the wilderness leads him to fashion his own ammunition. The delicate game of measurement arrests his mind from the visions of the gunpowder's target. He is a hunter of murderers. Beasts that kill private property, livestock that mean survival to their owners.
A lethal shepherd gliding on snow banks, Cory tracks another mountain lion who has ate the wrong meal. This job will slant his trajectory backwards to the site of his own nightmare. The hunt will provide second chances dripping in remorseful redemption.
An outside hunter joins the raid. Her heels scuffle in the snow slurry as she all but apologizes for her arrival. Yet her presence equates to federal aid, aid that will bring an army to fight injustice. Jane does not belong here, but she will. Trained and sturdy, she understands depravity, but not the desolation of the Reservation.
Wind River is a purgatory between heritage and imperialism. A white blanket of inactivity pounds the wills of the Natives to the ground. They breath polluted air that encourages one to settle. Opportunities are present, but only if you want to go to another planet. A funnel of appropriation surrounds the territory and the young are high off the fumes.
A pair of grief-stricken fathers stand on a porch. Tragedy is the wall gradually erected between them and their wives. They speak in cautious spurts. Their eyes do not communicate. Their heads face into an envied oblivion. Comfort is delivered by stubborn chiseling, and compassion requires tangible force. Every soul appears widowed by the layers of jackets concealing brittle physiques.
final words:
SUFFERING CANNOT BE ABBREVIATED