As a poet, I read Galvin’s prose as poetry. I found it textually satisfying. As a Montanan, I understood how land becomes the thread of one’s existence. The story of The Meadow is a litany of loosely patterned weather affecting circumscribed lives, interesting folk. In their own right. The telling is in loosely-bound vignettes which can, at times, confound. It
Was a rich read.
