I’m reading this at the moment – ‘Winter Count’ by Barry Lopez.

Short stories written with a purity and sparseness of language.

And something stunning happens.

Every time.

Picture driving by a prairie farm, seeing a man brushing a bare field with a broom.

Years later you pass again, and he’s still there, sweeping. Only this time something has changed…

… he has cultivated a field full of stones. Magical stones…

The stories unsettle: make you more unsure of the universe we think we’re living in. Glorious surprises. It’s so refreshing, and I’m loving them.

It’s not just cameras which capture fleeting, mysterious images. The most choice words on a page can do this too.

Winter Count
by Barry Lopez (1982) – http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0679781412