I drive home from the Valley, and a spontaneous St. Patrick's Day feast, and a fox crosses my path going west. A skunk heads east and then thinks better of it.
As I head north, in the morning, a twitchy, fur-less, moose trots in front of me, a bald eagle glides above my open sunroof, its shadow showing itself first. A flock of trumpeter swans take-off, a herd of elk turn toward the hills, a raven makes-off with something round and white in her beak, a magpie sits upon the back of a pastured horse, flocks of water fowl are bottoms up in the marsh, and a deer swims the Snake River with a right sizable herd watching, rapt, upon the other shore. This is my answer. Along with the mountains, the black silk parasol of stars, the horizon line, and people who inquire. This is today's answer; my current reason for being here, in Lincoln County, Wyoming, two thousand miles from my backstory.