I am the bad seed who chose where to sprout, alongside these meadows. I moved again despite your need for me. When I came out West without one look toward where I had been it was because the things that choked me—worse than thistles or stones, all the ordnance thrown, your savage son waging unholy wars in the memory of Cain. But here I own my square, honest piece of the well-worn dream one half I’ll mow and leave the rest to woods enough room to take root by friends who seem quite happy I...
