No country for older men

For all the scenic beauty of my Mom’s place in Sheridan, Mt., it’s not a great place to go walking. They use flood irrigation here so you’re likely to get your feet wet strolling through the tall grass; you can’t see the water until you’re in it. Also, the horses in the east pasture have become more friendly than I remember. They tend to follow along too closely, violating my personal space and threatening to step on my sensible shoes. If I were out here with a bridle, of course, they’d be running the fence line a quarter-mile away, ignoring my carrots and curses. Back in the day, if you needed a horse you had to get up very early just because it took so long to catch the damned things.

So my walk this morning was mostly symbolic. I went out and quickly returned, gingerly negotiating the bogs and cow-pies like the dude I’ve become. Mom’s garden provides more predictable footing. She has some enormous sunflowers growing there. I photographed them from every angle. Yes, I have several hundred similar photographs at home, but when you see a sunflower in the morning light you have to take a picture of it. That’s just the way it is. And now I guess I’d better change my socks.