On our travels to Iowa last week, Tim and I spotted on our trusty DeLorme atlas, what appeared to be a small town north of Lanesboro. With a name like Bucksnort–!!!!—how could we not seek it out.

This is what we found.

No town. No filling station. No cluster of houses. No pavement. No cell phone coverage. No traffic light, stop sign, or signage, even, except for the one below. Simply a picnic shelter (no garbage cans) at the edge of a pristine fishing spot called Trout Run Creek, a few graveled parking places, eleven damp concrete steps leading to a shallow muddy bank with the embellishment of a railing on one side fashioned from metal pipe painted glossy black, and (to our surprise), a dozen people besides us milling about but not (apparently) fishing.

As to the history of the place, we can only imagine.

Note to Readers: I am sending this week’s postcard early as a precaution.

For the past few weeks, my beloved Dell computer is showing signs of impending demise. Aaaaah! say I. This is the computer upon which I saw all three of my poetry collections to press.

Tim is wisely advising moving to an Apple laptop. I am reluctant to move even to another Dell, but do feel I can learn a new set of conventions, especially as Julia — our resident Apple expert — has offered to tutor me. So, just in case there is an unplanned break in missives from me in the near future, fear not! As soon as I learn the ropes, I will be back to my usual communications including weekly postcards. For now, fingers crossed! LESLIE