I’ve been waiting three years for a decent snow. Last night’s walk was pristine, not a breath of wind, not a cloud in the sky save for a small bank in the east glowing orange and pink as the sun sets. The snow marks its territory, covering the remains of 2020, soaking it into the barren ground. The cloud bank deepens to purple waiting for the waning moon to rise. The geese are elsewhere, the fox and coyote are still in their dens – I can tell by the preponderance of rabbit tracks, still bearing in a straight line from tree trunk to tree trunk. Highs in the 40s and low 50s in the coming days mean the snow will be gone soon. Kansas, adopted home of mine, thank you for your passionate people, your immaculate sunsets, your quirky seasons. My soul is content with my little corner of the natural world between these two rivers, but I think I am ready to take one of my jaunts in the Flint Hills, up where the sky is alive with stars, the barred owls patrol Middle Creek and the coyote chorus can last for hours. Mr. Bones, if you’re reading this, expect a call in the next couple of weeks.