What about the ranch and the silvered gray of the sage brush, the quick, clear water
in the irrigation ditches, and the heavy green of the alfalfa. The trail went up into the hills
and the cattle in the summer were shy as deer. The bawling and the steady noise and slow
moving mass raising a dust as you brought them down in the fall. And behind the
mountains, the clear sharpness of the peak in the evening light and, riding down along the
trail in the moonlight, bright across the valley. Now he remembered coming down through
the timber in the dark holding the horse's tail when you could not see and all the stories
that he meant to write.