He'd always lived in Minnesota. Bruce the gold miner. Bruce lit a cigarette and rubbed his sparse beard. His face was all angles, and his eyes were large and blue. I couldn't tell his age.
People seem to weather here in the northwestern wind and sun.
The dust gouges their pores, and it's only by peering into their eyes that their youth is apparent. Their eyes always surprise me, to see clear sky blue and bottle-glass green in weathered brown faces. There's a living to be made there. And hunting and trapping, too. I'm not going back to Minnesota.