A west wind salutes me, I think of home.
Many may consider the rural areas of the west similarly as one would aesthete paintings. They look nice, but you wouldn’t really want to live in Victorian England. Some people look at those areas of the map where roads and town markers fade away, and consider the intellectual aptitude of the inhabitants similarly waning. Not I. I have seen things and known people whose very existence screams blatantly to the contrary. There exists a certain marginalized thread of our society wherein one finds long-winded cowboy philosophers, beautiful bleak winter days, and those people who chose to forsake all the comforts of progress in order to be closer to both. Most people look at the tapestry and pass over these seemingly threadbare patterns. Some of us, however, see nothing else. The lines and circles roll away like ripening wheat, and the doubts and terrors of our absurd world roll away with them. A swift sunrise over snow-capped mountains, and I am home
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And now that Measure 49 has passed, perhaps some more of those threadbare areas will remain untrammeled by mcmansions whose owners often seem unaware of the lasting blemish their few-weeks-out-of-the-year residence leaves in the dark-sky-open-space landscapes that others have committed to stewarding in an everyday lifelong relationship.
The river stones miss you EZ - as do the swales and benches, the draws and rims.
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