Dirt roads with stones that you’ve named old names and skipped across rivers on ranches with five fences and three fences, and gates that must be closed both times...
Author - lunker
Shoulders, rubbing against boulders, trying to not only hold one side of a flat rock but casting frantically to reach a shore thirty feet away. When the obstacle in...
Memories I wish I had, of giant rivers with small dirt roads next to them. When the fishermen didn’t go past the ten mile marker and the testicle festival lasted...
It’s the small things that keep me going back to the rivers. The way tree-roots look when the water washes back their soil, leaving flimsy tentacles, dangling and naked...
The storm clouds come when they want to, with howling grumbles they balloon. Pouting over valleys and casting shadows on tree nests and cigar smoke. They eat prairie...
The rivers are running away with potatoes and beef jerky, brown. The upper madison laughs with low baritone grumps. Its shores are clean, the fish are waking from a...