She roams with the horses and the white-tail deer, the mother and her fawn. She breaths in the dawn. A little moan of delight comes from Jackie’s lips. Her breath is golden red in the first rays of the new day sun. Her senses are overwhelmed as it settles on her that all this is only one stroke of the Artist’s brush. Waves of greasy grass kneel to worship in the cool wind which caresses a thousand gentle bluffs in the South Dakota spring.
“Oh, Dave,” she says to me. She can only squeeze my hand. She can’t convey to me in spoken word the thrill of this creation. She must write. She must write. My mom must write.
