My dear Wigleaf —


I worry, some days, that I don't even belong in the wild west. I've never circled the wagons. I don't even have a wagon, can't afford it, they aren't cheap. Cattle rustling? A job for quicker cowgirls. But, no one is going to pin a star to my chest either.

Mining for gold is a lot of hard work with nearly no return on the investment. They don't tell you that in the gold fields, though. Streams full of pale pink quartz and slippery shale. They just tell you to stake your claim and wait for that first peek of gold. Then, those sons of bitches jump it.

I'm no gunslinger. My foes attack slow like Blackstrap molasses —
   
Wind that knocks my hat down the thoroughfare.
       
Tart blue huckleberries sweet-plucked from the bush.
       
The tumble of whiskey into a short glass.
   
I'm not allowed in the saloon anymore. When the barkeep came 'round to collect his coin, I turned my pockets out. ''I'm sorry,'' I said. ''I can't afford your tip jar.''
   
Miss Trixie rolled her eyes and led the piano man upstairs by the hand. The barkeep shoved me through the swinging doors.
   
''Varmints!'' I hollered at the bright lights, the barred doors.
   
I'll circle from above like a scavenger, Wigleaf. Not a chicken hawk who belongs to the west. You know how I can be. I'll fly around and around, above them, always in flight, a murder of crows in a ten-gallon hat.

   
XOXO,
   
Brianne




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