I think of my life as a kind of music, not always good music but still having form and melody.

To be alive at all is to have scars.

I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.

We could live offa the fatta the lan'.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer -- and what trees and seasons smelled like -- how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

When you know a friend is there you do not go to see him. Then he's gone and you blast your conscience to shreds that you did not see him.

To the heavens on the wings of a pig.