April 22

Cottonwood trees never die, or when they do they keep on dying for hundreds of years so we can see the full glory of life after death.

The sound of Wall Creek, the little creek that runs past the studio building below the cabin and empties into the north fork of the Shoshone River, sounds like I've left the door open, but I haven't left the door open it just sounds that way.

Yesterday was exactly the kind of day I needed: I sat on a rock and ascertained movement in a dark field far away: a herd of elk.

Tomorrow, I'm going to walk the property, looking for signs of improper human intrusions, and either leave them undisturbed or remove them from the premises posthaste.