I am my best in a spiral notebook, wrinkled and blowing pages. In the solitude shared with animals, that silent language we all speak. The fur of a dog ruffling against the hand of wind and the puff of dirt from a shaking horse. The sway of a saddle underneath – especially the sway of a saddle underneath. I have given myself to this desert, to these animals, and they to me.
To be real – now that is the thing, isn’t it?
Do you ever lift your arms to the sky and sing from the pure happiness of it all?