While eating tomato soup and cheese for lunch, my two year old son asked to see pictures of buddha.
It is a gardener’s expectation that brings us to remaining fragments of the West – creek bottoms, wheat stubble, rocky foothills….We depend on these places. And sometimes we try to speak for them, though of course we feel the redundancy and awkwardness of that. Each has its voice, quieter than ours.
Listening to the River: Seasons in the American West
Can you say no?