My thoughts returned to Kansas from California or vice versa, the order hardly mattering. I found myself thinking that there is something soothing in the winter farm chores, consisting principally in the collection of sticks and cut brush, their piling up and being set aflame, the raking up of unburnt ends and positioning of new offerings, all in the end of letting the thing burn itself out. I imagine that, should I fail later in life at whatever project, I might return to the year-in, year-out task of finding a rosebush, stump or exposed rock, looking about first for twigs and sticks, limbs and cedars, laying them about some specious center in a slow spiral, leaning in and compressing with foot or body the pile from time to time, leaving it behind to conduct a sweep of the timber, hedge and fenceline, judging it of a satisfactory height and thickness, and moving on to repeat the process. I muse that I might make a life of this, leaving monuments destined to be burnt and abandoned, this work of making myself forgotten, a work of forgetting, of merging with the ephemeral, preparing myself to be lost in the ashes. I wondered if I had not perhaps already set on this path, what with my father’s land and my plans for it, to sell it, forget it and extinguish everything about it, whether out of spite, a destructive character or something else entirely.