For years, I watched the weather, the wind, the trash that blew through my front yard. I became curious if there was a common material that tended to get caught in the grass, against a tree trunk, limb, or jagged rock. I narrowed it to one thing: bags. Lots of bags, a not-so-hidden ecosystem of disposability circling the globe. To someone, at some point, they were useful—and then they weren’t. They had a story to tell, a song to hum, the blues that arise from constant departure. I decided to “reunite” a “family” of bags and waited for the different varieties to fly through my yard. I wrote and sang songs for each, painting the lyrics on their bodies, an imaginary story about the rise and fall of an endlessly touring, burned-out rock band.