feeling like god at supper in the sky , horizons pink and blue , a frontier blasted through with breath and industry , like god himself could suffocate on the beauty of the place , could curl up and die at beholdin his own creation , all the razor reds of the west and the broke-down south always on a lean , elegantlike , the coyote howl and the cannibal kudzu and the dusty windows that ai n't seen a rag of cleaning since- hey , james grierson says .