The rain wasn’t heavy enough to fill up the holes, but the roads were streams and the birds pecked at worms underneath pine trees. They will drowned they will be eaten by ravens or the occasional red wing. Are those eyes, were you once a butterfly, “no Mr. these are scars, and dried blood, you know these noodles have more then twenty hearts.”

I talk to the flying creatures of Bozeman, through paper airplanes, and tree-forts. We have conversations about weather disturbances; I ask which will come next. They ask about Story Mill, “who has been repairing the windows”. Bob the pigeon got locked in that second floor, and died. These birds are just as sensitive to change as I am.

I don’t tell them their Bridger views will be soon coming to an end. They wouldn’t understand Leed, or big money investments. I don’t understand Leed, or big money investments. I face the change before it comes, paint walls with memories and try my hardest to move on. Even the rats have to find other places to live.

These are horses; they sometimes sleep standing up, the young are called foals, they love to lie in the sun. These are buffalo; there use to be two hundred on Manley. That is alfalfa and it only grows in 7 to 8 year stints. The Bozeman recreational pond use to be a dump-site, *a child wears a snorkel mask looking for hidden treasures.*

I take these things for granted:
the art galleries,
the rodeos,
the skiing,
the fishing,
the pine trees,
the cottonwoods in winter,
fire-pits in the backyard,
fire-pits in a tee-pee,
dirt roads,
snowy mountains,
that one big blue thing.