A harsh north wind rattled the bare cottonwood trees along the property line.

I drank my coffee and watched a pair of hawks circle over our eighty acres.

“I thought those land companies never stopped bidding,” Luke said.

“They stop when the math goes bad,” I said.

“They aren’t buying memories.”

Luke set his mug down on the wooden porch railing.

He looked out at the spot near the barn where the survey flags used to be.

The Denver hunter had taken them all down before the auction company took over the sale.