One hundred and four degrees. Thunderheads building. From the air, I study the geometry of center-pivot irrigation and oil and gas fields below, trying to read tea leaves, wondering about meanings, even though it’s only alfalfa, soybeans and service roads. Short stories by T.C. Boyle sparkle and crack and require less craning of the neck, …

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I gotta do something different in the morning. I wake, start reading the latest Trump assaults on decency and wonder, “Where am I?” And I’m starting to feel my own descent into taking pokes at Trump on Twitter — including “Admired Eddie Haskell” and “Should Carry Gilligan’s Island” — has been pretty tame.

I think we’re going to revoke landing privileges for the Trump Jet here at dreamranch. Or maybe we’ll just build a wall. That guy in the golf hat caused a bad dream for a guest last night and I think he is disturbing my dog. My old firefighting and trail-building buddy Bob cruised in yesterday …

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My Apple devices chime and I am transported to Montana, 10 again, feeling the grass tickling my bare legs, the warmth of the late Sunday afternoon — the forbidding return of structured learning still a couple of weeks away. Sister Hope has sent me a picture of nephew Will at home outside Helena, two-month-old chicken …

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If you see nothing new on dreamranch, you might find me on Twitter. Sometimes I can’t muster more than a tweet. But there’s also something so ludicrous about Twitter, I just can’t resist. So, my Twitter handle is @jrobertsonNM at this here address. And the latest can be seen by clicking on that little file …

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