But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.
There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.
Time passed so much more slowly than space.
Listen - man is a child of Nature. When he turns against his mother - he's done! He may not find out about it right away, but he will.
By mid-morning a rain as fine as silk spills was weaving over the lake.
Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death.