And we're brothers, and that's alright.

It's fall, suddenly and after what seems like years. And there's something about the ever-shortening days and the endless wind and the scent of dying leaves that reminds me of everything I love. I want cool days with outdoor antics in sweatshirts with friends. I want warm evenings inside on plush sofas with warm drinks and warmer bodies, remembering why the ones we loves are the ones we love. And I want it all, but I have to remember that I can have it all, just not all at the same time. 

So, for now, I'll just share with you what I love.

Soon the cottonwoods will start changing, and their yellow leaves and shining white bark will make "them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales." (Thanks Willa) 

Yeah... I like peach pie. I like that it feels like a foreign treat meant only for special occasions and sympathy. 

Scottish Highland Cattle. I want them. I will have them. I love them. They're like giant bear-dog-cows. Glorious.

All day. Every day. Please. Thank you.

I guess you're xbox, and I'm more atari.

Cather Chronicle IV

Here on the edge of the world
crickets find solemnity in
crimson skies, and if you believe
nothing lies past the nearest hills
but nothing. Well, God bless you.
Tonight I pray that my bed transforms
into miles of endless grass,
inhaling and exhaling as
the Earth, the earth, spirals
below the painted dome of the
heavens. Because if it really
is a dome, it too ends just beyond
the nearest hill, and I want
to enjoy it while I can

The purring of steel rails and
metal spikes provides the only
connection between this moment and
all other moments. And that's
just as comforting as it ought
to be.

Willa knows. She knows how
this solution, desolation, elation
combine to form the working
firmament of our souls.

You can hear the story of
the edge carried for miles
by an azure breeze, picking
up resolution from the
Plains. This land finds
completion in its missing
parts, fulfillment in the
things it will never know.

This... this is not a country
at all, but the material out
of which countries are made.

Willa knows. I know. That below
this carpet of grass, crisped and
sun-burnt, below this thoroughfare
of oxygenated traffic, rest unbridled
potential, unasked for potential.