A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.
Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death.
The lush green of the fields became a rich gold that swayed sturdily under the wind and fell at last before the hands of the reapers.
There's precious little comes of telling people what they don't want to hear.
There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.
But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.