Blog while you can for you never know when one or all the many necessities upon which it depends might elude you. Power, signal bars of connectivity, or a computer with some memory space left in its brain. Right here in Burns, Oregon, I am close to the edge. But I cannot write about Burns and all its parallels to Winesburg, Ohio (at least the way I remember Sherwood Anderson recalling its characters - the dollar store lady who sold Leila a sweater and would not make eye contact reappeared at the pathetic Thai restaurant last night. Yes, you might wonder, I did say Thai and no, we will not make that mistake again. She with her pitch black dyed hair sat opposite her hefty husband (making assumptions here) while they played cards poker faced, anticipating their sweet and sour pork. Just minutes before the sweater changed hands and there it was out in public, but could she say hey - smile, acknowledge given this second opportunity? No way. But I am off track already here in the Silver Spur Inn. Many stories to tell before reveling in the present. That is the other strange thing about blogs - they are read in reverse chronology. Well maybe not. Guess that is the business of the world at the other end of these signal bars.
Some last images and thoughts on the colors of Yellowstone and our fortunate chance to witness the explosion of spring, a seeming interruption of the powerful rhythms of its underworld pulsing.
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