A Montana Journal, ca March 2020 We was down on river’s edge a few days past, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed. It were a just little spit of water off the main flow of the Bitterroot near to settlement of Victor. Big enough, tho, and deep in places, to hold some acceptable trout. Off in some field close by I heard me the croaking rasp of a Sandhill Crane. They come back to the valley every year about this time to make their babies and push on with life. I have confidence that old bird is not one bit concerned with the current doings of us peoples. It is just being. And there so is life itself, what keeps trundling onward in its labor to continue its own existence. These days seem to find us all working plentiful hard for this life thing. Staying far one from another. Steering clear. Holed up and lonely. And so it should be, I reckon. A lot of us has given it up already. Not by choice, but by living’s design. It is a sadness all around, and surely more so for them wha...