A Montana Journal, ca. July 2026 They’s daises on the path down to the river. More of them, by quite the many, than peoples. They’s just being, and sharing some simple beauty for passersby. Living beneath the care and kindness of the Great Creator. Me and brother Matthew crossed the divide a few day back and trailed here to the Rock Creek. A fine piece of water with rocky bottom, riffles and runs what hold fat trout. Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, heavy with our traps, whiskey and water, carried us surefooted once again over them tall rugged mountains and to this high river valley. We was aiming to fish a bit, drink a bit, and rest ourself from quite the restless world. Perhaps that was cause for them daises to linger on my attention. They was angry at nothing. Didn’t call out, demand or insist. Or throw no stones, wishing evil on them that might lift ‘em from the earth and carry them away. Yet even so, they’d still give up their joy until they give up life itself. In these hi...