Field and Stream
True friendships in middle age are seldom. So, we take them less for granted. They merit signifiers, and Leroy’s signifiers were light.
When I think of Leroy, tall and lank in a stained cowboy hat, I remember his relationship to kinds of light, like a dusk filled with bull bats in the cottonwoods on the band of the
Wind River as we fished. Or the mineral-dull winter light of the shrub steppe, hunting chukars on rocky hillsides. Or the gleam in the tall-set black eyes of pronghorns, when Leroy and I knew we’d stalked into range.