A Manuscript, Black Hills

a tunnel carved through the Black Hills


Perhaps prematurely I write you dear friend, of this, my most unfortunate circumstance. You see, it has been a pittance of time passed in which I’ve had the glory to call these, the Black Hills, my home.

For though I have no particular concerns nor facets of life which might require me to move ever onward, I have decided that I will continue to do so at a similar pace from now on and at least ’til Autumn. Therefore, tomorrow I and mine shall say goodbye.

You see, as vast a trove as this portion of our dear country may be—the Wild West and all in most unlikely fashion—and as greatly indebted as I am already to have seen its bosom wild and open free as I did, I fret that Winter, when it comes, will simply prove too difficult for further northern encroachment in my lifetime.

That is to say, this feels like a last year spent roaming these Americas. There could be sailing Mediterranean unknown language small coastal towns or revisiting German roots. There could be children learning alongside Romanians or reviving a Kombi in some Middle Earth meets Men at Work supermashup.

Either way, if haste shall come no sooner than fortune permits me to exist…I suppose counting myself lucky to some higher thing would not be imprudent.