The Working Writer's Screenplay

 

Again, I feel the dust of the town trying to find the Shopco store and I end up in the darkness, remembering again I'm on prairie with the town behind me. I stop the car to turn around, cursing I missed the Shopco and suddenly see the full moon behind me. Large enough to throw a lasso around. Maybe some have arrived. Coming through the clouds. And above me  - stars but not a few stars - I'm talking hundreds of millions of stars. I've just broken a major rule of travel - I've critics  the town I'm in. Waterloo. I'm sorry, I don't know what it's like to live there so I should complain. As a critisized  traveler I feel guilty.

The morning of the 23rd, through South Dakota - 1-90 west of Mitchell. Ducks, through South Dakota everywhere, it's just incredible. They're all flying northwards - hundreds, maybe thousands. I feel sad that many will end up in the sits of hunters and realize this is the way things are. But somethings so free and so purposeful shouldn't complain. I eat. A farmer shooting a few ducks to eat doesn't bother me, but wealthy corporate heads from Chicago or Los Angeles paying to come up and shoot something they really don't need bothers me. Listening to a S.D. radio station, the dj's talk about seeing the geese last night and at morning. Refreshing change from murder, accidents and pollution index's.

Just above me is a flock or whatever of ducks/geese, probably is about 2 - 300 flying  overhead. It's incredible. They turn, they fly forward, such precision . It's incredible, they turn, they fly forward, such precision something very powerful about the image, sounds of them another year, they  like another about the image, sounds of them another, they like me, . I realize are returning over and will continue to go until they 're shot or old. Now I don't feel so bad about repeating my life. There must be a purpose to it. Ducks don't think of dying and therefore aren't plagued by self-doubt or meaning or purpose in life. They just live it every day.