The pages in this manuscript of my year are falling out. With age comes wear and tear. I know this because I am living this. Still moving through Big Sky country I am gliding on streets like glass. Slip through canyons, and over rivers, lakes and creeks. There is a concerto of insects and birds set against the rhythm of a summer breeze. Today I stopped for some time between Plitzville and Clinton. I walked until I reached a tributary of the Clark Fork (river). An old man was fly-fishing there. As I strolled through high blades of yellow strawgrass, crickets jumped from me—the giant’s feet. On untraveled swathes of pavement, butterflies with orange wings flirted. They danced around one another with their big bright wings fluttering. They would sit perfectly still for one moment, and then take off to perform a waltz in mid-air. The river water was warm and inviting. I saw no fish, but the fisherman, he was determined. He wore high boots and a coffee-colored hat. He did not sweat in the sun. He stood in total silence—a trance-like state. He moved not an inch. He waited. Me? I’m always moving. I have nothing to wait for.
