Back in the sage brush and pine mountains that he called home while alive, we rest in blue sky and sunshine. Time is a non factor. We hearing the fishing is good and head to a secret cove my brother knows, safely anchored from the wind and occasional mid day thunderstorms. Deer find their way to quench their thirst, beaver scurry about building their home on the lake shore, we pull trout from the water to abundance.
The little ones catch their first fish ever, excitement brimming across porcelain skin. The adults take them under their wing, show them the circle of life as we knife the life out of our dinner, fry them with butter, and lick the fresh meat from our fingers. Savage can be the mountainous routine.
We sleep well.