Merle Haggard

In Wyoming, there's a mountain at the end of my driveway. But before I get there I have to cross a river of weeds.

Merle Haggard's singing while I drive. I pass one little town after another where the next great poet may be riding in a beat-up gray 1996 Lincoln Towncar, driven by his or her meth-addict mother down Main Street, with all the windows rolled down because they won't roll up.

Next stop is Dairy Queen in West Yellowstone. I decide not to wait in line behind a bus load of Chinese tourists to use the bathroom, instead order an ice cream cone dipped in chocolate and hit the road again.

The music under my wheels changes from asphalt to a dirt road, and before I know it I'm at the cabin, opening doors and windows, walking around the property to see what's lived and what's died since the last time I was here.

Then I make a drink and sit on the porch and watch the sun go down. It's the best thing I've seen in a long time and I've seen a lot of really good things recently, probably more than my fair share.

There's no nightlife in Wapiti, Wyoming, only the moon rising with a few clouds hanging around it and a sky full of all the right stars.