Spring had finally come, and I shed the dying winter, the death of my marital bed, and returned briefly to my ten-year-old child of yesteryear. I leaned into the raw spring wind feeling the spirit of books bursting in my saddlebags—the life climbing into my bones. Knocking my heels against the beast, I kissed my teeth in short bursts, urging her into a full gallop. Being able to return to the books was a sanctuary for my heart. And a joy bolted free, lessening my own grievances, forgiving spent youth and dying dreams lost to a hard life, the hard land, and to folks’ hard thoughts and
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