June 3, 2019:

City boy on a very old horse.

Short in the saddle. Cowboy hat, tennies, his mother's dark shades.

It's not his world.

It's not even a real world. The Wild West affectation: there's nothing wild in this west. It's a business, a large one, a rural factory of wheat and beef, fully mechanized, not in the least bit small.

He was excited to ride the horse. The horse wasn't. They remained on speaking terms, but they were never close.

June 2, 2019:

Posed, but, cleverly executed.

They've got me at the wheel of the tractor, looking backward to reverse, hands turning the wheel hard. It's entirely static but my posture is correct. I could, indeed, be backing up.

There it is, captured on the steppe. Looking backward, trying to go backward, not going anywhere. You could have stopped my life right there.

June 1, 2019:

Boy with grandfather, alone with their tractor, somewhere on the vast and empty steppe.

Granddad looks proud, here. There's almost a smile.

I have his DNA. Of all these people I resemble him most, and one of his brothers. From him I have the shape of my hairline, and the tendency to bellyfat. From his brother, the lanky physique, the intelligence, the penchant for very silly humor.

In a closet I have his watch, his Sunday Stetson. In my pocket I have his Peace Dollar. That latter is probably my most important inheritance.