He hears them cropping grass one night near the National Forest. Horses live two, three years in the wild. They are pre- historic. They don’t consort with fences. Montana grass …

There is no plural in the tongue of the west. The mountains rise from the singular. Stark teeth populate the Crazies but there is only one heart. One one one …

He finds the goddess one sweet November day. These mountains are like new, she says. Run your hand over granite seamed with mica. Put your face on the stone. I’ll …

A black-capped chickadee on a feeder in southeast Iowa flies all the way to Livingston. Montana is within his normal range. Winter is coming on. You will have to consider …

1. Snow swirls around the hands, the feet. Eyes open, hearts clench their fists. The body is a volcano. 2. The sun blinks its yellow eye. Wind blows the ice …

Some days are bleak necessity. Wind roils the river. The bridge nearly touches the surface. The rain has stopped and the floods are done. Walk the debris field at water’s …

Early Beethoven, the Eroica say. The timpani crashes announcing Napolean can still save us all. The vets coming back from the good war, the GI bill. Build cars in Detroit, …

Photos cannot capture the light falling across his body. He is standing in flame. To the West is the rest of his life. To the South and East are history. …

Adjustment is everything. Tinker with the knobs every day of your life. Turn a gradient to the left. A delicate shade of west in your lovely fingers. Look: the sun …

It blows me away, this rock stew with a dose of Darwin. This plant exploding biome seasoned with animal. You never can believe what will come next. I don’t mind …