One last serious little road trip. We came north to cut the weeds and feed the strays. By the end a little painting too. The house and the neighborhood look good. The town does not.

There’s still no water there and so. I’m at the motel on night one and drop a nice outdoor piss. This is what I’ve always liked about the place. (The only advantage to the town is that there’s nothing here.) I get to thinking.

The team trucking plan is looking shaky for some good reasons and I realize mid-piss that maybe there is no viable path yet to a house in the right town. Here in the wrong town though there is a house, and it’s well on the way to being paid for. Suddenly I see myself past the hate and pain of why I left here, slotted back into the place I chose 15 years ago, and writing and living as I did for much of the summer.

It would be failure but it would cover the most important things.

This year is full of angling and wrangling and hope before it is even out of the gate.