Home.

   I realized today that I haven't brought friends home since junior high. Especially for long periods of time. I think I'm protective of it. Home is a safe place -- A place where the food is warm and full of goodness. The hugs are long and full of love. The walks are brisk in March and void of many colors, save brown, light brown, dark brown and a special shade of mud. The cow shit even has a certain romance to it. That's a lie. Cow shit always smells like shit. But even that smells like home.

   It took moving away, then back again, for me to realize how much I love it here. I like being able to drive up the road for a cup of sugar and walk away with a whole bag. I love being welcomed into (nearly) every home with a hug and a smiling face. My walks to the river and through the feedlot allow my mind to quiet in a way that seems impossible. I love it here. I really do. It took a while for me to learn what home meant, but I know now.

   The ice is jammed up on the Yellowstone. The ditches are full of rain water. The sky reaches a type of blue that only Montana can provide and the gravel road is a disaster zone. The feedlot is a soupy mess. The fields are waiting to be plowed and the cattle are itching for grass. The birds are starting to sing and the sun is starting to shine. The brown is ready to slide out of the hills and the green is ready to settle back in. The yucca plants are the start of the new summer. My lungs feel full. And the meadowlarks sound divine.

   Anyone can love the mountains, but it takes soul to love the prairie.