Hasty was on the verge of both greatness and despair. There was no luck either good or bad. He knew it. There was nothing to curse or thank. He also knew there were places and sites that never let him down. The stars swirled from night to night and season to season. He knew his life was too short to make sense of it and he was okay with that. He listened to the owls and coyotes and smelled the skunks and packrats. They were getting by just like him. The nights were cold. They would be getting warmer. He was caught in a spring snow storm a few days before and let the large wet flakes slap his face. The wind and snow chilled him to the bone, but it couldn’t last. In the afternoon the sky cleared. The sun melted the snow on the trees. It fell in plops like wet cow patties onto the ground. It turned to rain in the bush, thawing the ground while the sun shone, blinking and blinding through the boughs. Hasty took advantage of the warmth, lying on rocks, while the creek filled its banks and then his ears. This is what he compared it all to.