for
back
road
capillaries,
taking
in
the
bigger
picture:
Black
hills
and
yellow
grass,
rolling,
rolling.
I
say,
"This
is
what
it’s
all
about—
finding
something
untouched
and
unmoved
to
move
us."
Getting
drunk
in
the
sharp
shade
of
Devil’s
Tower,
making
love
on
the
sidewalk
under
the
dome
in
Missoula
by
the
river,
strumming
chords
and
banging
drums
on
Seattle
streets,
sharing
wine
with
strangers,
amphetamines
with
runaways,
taking
the
ferry
to
the
rim,
losing
control
on
the
edge
of
the
world,
and
just
too
damn
busy
living
to
write
it
all
down.
Near
Klamath
Falls,
not
far
from
the
California
line,
90