On the plane to Missoula, I read Richard Hugo. He captures the barren beauty of the place where he lived and worked for so many years perfectly.
Tomorrow will open again, the sky wide
as the mouth of a wild girl, friable
clouds you lose yourself to. You are lost
in miles of land without people, without
one fear of being found, in the dash
of rabbits, soar of antelope, swirl
merge and clatter of streams.