The valley changed colors constantly.

I preferred the early morning light, when the hues appeared blurred.

The old homestead sat at an elevation of some 6,000 ft and in any direction you turned there were mountain peaks, now granite gray and blue, the colors of high summer.

The only sounds you heard came from the stream and the breeze disturbing the midget oak trees.

Peace.

The coffee pot was gargling and the skillet was hot and waiting for the eggs and the flat iron steaks Barney Scaggs had brought the other day from Omaha.

This was such a different place in the summer! Winters up here always have teeth. Once, in ’96, we got snowed in for almost a month before Ross and the Mexicans from the Sunrise Double D came to the rescue over the Bruce Fork pass. They arrived just in time to hanker down during yet another blasting blizzard. But now we had supplies.

I took my plate and mug full of coffee out on the deck. Two young cottontails stared at me, unconcerned…

Time to enjoy.. A valley song…!