To write about Wyoming, you must write about the wind, about what you can know through your skin. Objects that can be seen may lie one-hundred miles away, but the wind touches you, raising dust and sand to the level of your attention and forces you to inhale the earth itself.
This place is all erosion; the proof of this can be seen at the passage into night when the hills, especially where they fall to the river, are pulled taught by the angled sunlight like a well-made bed. In lending shape to the land, late-formed shadows expand the awareness of size.
This place is all size; the truth of this can be seen in the smallness of man’s works, in a town broken into small golden pixels beneath a line of rocky noses, isolated by canyons that began as veins where water flows.