I’m in Montana and every morning at six I take a walk up Burma Road with Spike the collie and the orange cats who think they are dogs. Spike’s nose is like a newspaper when he hits the road. He picks up information I’m oblivious to. The cats also seem to have their own news gathering agenda. I pay more attention – to the sound of my shoes on the gravel road, the rush of the river in the distance, the cattle lowing in the pasture, the wind. And also to the shift of light as the sun rises over the Tobacco Root Mountains. In Santa Monica I walk every morning listening to NPR on KCRW; nothing much happens on these walks, but in Montana a dawn walk feels full of drama. I run into a group of free range cows on the road – in spite of their size cows manage to move stealthily behind the sage bushes, suddenly appearing in front of me on the road, scaring the daylights out of me. “Shoo!” I yell at them. They gaze at me confused but friendly.  Swallows swoop overhead trying to divert the cats from their nests in the bench land. Last night at dinner someone said they’d seen a bear out in the pasture so I’m on the lookout for the bear too. And the horse I was riding yesterday got freaky suddenly and then I saw the rattle snake in our path. So there’s a lot to be on the lookout for. I’m trying to be as alert as Spike, trying to read the same newspaper.