Kind of strange. Out of the blue, I was thinking about some of his writing this week. A Good Day to Die.
I Believe
I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
who havenÛªt quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
of birds IÛªve talked to all of my life, the dogs
that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
from IN SEARCH OF SMALL GODS
The age of the newspaper is almost over, but The New York Times still excels at obituaries
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/28/arts/jim-harrison-free-spirited-writer-dies-at-78.html?_r=0
