Each morning, Montana expands in fresh light only a few feet outside my bay windows. The prairie appears at my feet, scented of sage, honey-colored grass insistent on bowing before the softest wind. This time of year, as winter sideswipes autumn, the mountains collect on the horizon like armadas of sailing ships carved from jade, their elevated fields of snow now sails filled with sun and trade winds. Clouds roll on, soft bellied, but insistent.
Before this land flushes fully green again. Before the bluebirds return to stitch their flights overtop me, we live in the cool pastel of these mornings. If we are lucky, the deer will cross through as we watch.