Last week I drove home from Prineville through Spray.
Down winding roads and past creeks inviting you to float down them.
Past a freshly painted, white school house.
Through quaint little towns with stores that advertised "fresh worms".
I drove with eyes wide open through the Painted Hills that gleamed with shades of turquoise, burnt oranges, faded yellows and goldish-reds.
Through valleys filled with dry grasses waiting for fall rains to turn green.
Past cattle grazing and tending to their grown calves who are almost ready to be weaned.
Everyone waved to one another there whether they knew you or not.