Waiting for the Mountains

Home Correspondence Waiting for the Mountains

Eastern Montana: a gigantic plate of congealed gravy. Chicken gravy. A shimmering, menacing, pale silver-yellow, begrudgingly patched with some better-off-nameless light green culture. We're talking stubble here in this drought year, not chest-high grain. The gravy platter stretches east and west for 500 miles . . .

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