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144 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1984
In Wyoming we are supplicants, waiting all spring for the water to come down, for the snow pack to melt and fill the creeks from which we irrigate. Fall and spring rains amount to less than eight inches a year, while above our ranches, the mountains hold their snows like a secret: no one knows when they will melt or how fast. When the water does come, it floods through the state as if the peaks were silver pitchers tipped forward by mistake.
Dust rises like an evening gown behind his truck. It flies free for a moment, then returns, leisurely, to the habitual road - that bruised string which leads to and from my heart.The West has never appealed much to me. I've traveled to parts of the western US and it was fine to visit but it has never drawn me the way it draws so many people. As far as I'm concerned living in Missouri was simultaneously too far west and too far south for my tastes. Reading this collection reminded me of that more vividly than it did with Islands, the Universe, Home.