On Lander, WY:
The winds thin and immediate, harsh because we all know of coming weather. Late leaves scuttle and scratch down the street, looking for avenues of survival. Each exhaled breath a shotgun blast. Each step both the next and last. Winter hangs; is a hand of blacks and whites looking to smother. . Frame after frame passes before the lens of eye. Each house passed on these late season walks is a home only when the lights come on. High in the sky there is a sun in possession of nothing more than light, a completely heatless transcendence. Beneath all is the insistent hum of the earth being earth. We walk when there is nothing else to, because there is nothing else to do.
