I’m back in Big Sky country.

A town of four hundred people.

One gas station. Six churches.

Bullet holes in the “no shooting” sign at the edge of town.

A dried up bit of nothing that once inspired these words:

“I remember the big rigs sitting in the dark with their engines running. I remember country and western music playing on the jukebox in bars where the faces never change and the loneliness one can find at the bottom of an empty pint glass. I remember the sky getting pink in the hills at dusk, snubbing a cigarette out against a fence post, the way golden fields accept heartache without complaint. I haven’t shined my shoes in months and moths feast on my best suit but then I remember that Jesus used to live amongst thieves and prostitutes. I remember that most men don’t own guns unless they know how to shoot and I remember all the times that whiskey helped take the edge off the truth.”

Well, now that I’m here, I’m back to drinking whiskey in the afternoon again.

Sitting on the front porch – sifting truth from the noise.

Picking at old wounds while counting all the things I have in common with barbed wire fences.