Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And

The Question That Haunted Every Investigation Was 'why'.

The Leaves Had Fallen From The Trees And Lay Crisp And Crackling Beneath His Feet. Picking One Up He Marveled, Not For The First Time, At The Perfection Of Nature Where Leaves Were Most Beautiful At The Very End Of Their Lives.

The Women In The Room Chatted About Love, About Childhood, About Losing Parents, About Mr. Spock, About Good Books They'd Read. They Mothered Each Other.

In Winter The Very Ground Seemed To Reach Up And Grab The Elderly, Yanking Them To Earth As Though Hungry For Them.

A Good Journalist, As You Know, Is A Great Listener. And So's A Good Writer. And I Got To Listen To People For Almost 20 Years. That Serves Me Well, I Hope, When I Try To Understand How A Character Might Be Feeling, Or How They Might React.