Cotton Bob spraying back red spray paint out of his tail to mark the trail while carrying a disappearing hat into a rabbit across Sahuarita while wearing a disappearing hi-hat into a saguaro across Sahara. You meet all sorts of folks out here, folks like Cotton Bob. I guess you could say I’ve met a few myself, but let’s leave it at that, at a few, to be precise, seeing as I don’t pay much attention, not often I don’t, to the goings and doings and talkings of others.
Conservation is a real concern to Cotton Bob and to the others; I assume. Meanwhile, in pitch black, the petals of rainbow pinwheels spin in front of my eyes but I can’t see them, because it’s pitch black, dummy. Aren’t you or aren’t you paying attention at all? So there I am, camped out, on my back in the backcountry, staring up at these spinning pinwheels, not seeing them at all ‘cause it’s pitch dark—as I’ve already mentioned a couple dozen times which you would’ve remembered if you had been paying any attention at all instead of sticking your what in saguaro holes—not certain if there are any pinwheels at all, but feeling a breeze nonetheless, and thinking, to myself and maybe out loud, wondering if the whole thing’s a wash. Nothing to nothing. Don’t tell Washington.
We can’t build a road here, can we really?
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