“In the end”, He ponders, “a story is just someone’s snippet .” He moves along in the hot Idaho air, a blessing in April. Dust swirls up, around and lands on his hairy arms. “Why not mine? Why not put down all the life that is farming and digging and gathering and selling? I will just start to jot and see what happens.” Smiling, the planting rushes by.
Idaho. I don’t know.