I feel very small in Ucross, Wyoming. I believe it is a smallness that comes from just how enormous everything seems in comparison to my tiny human self: towering mountaintops, vast stretches of foothills, and endless pathways of stars pulsing against a gaping, cavernous sky at night. It is clear to me that I can become lost here, swallowed into the landscape without leaving a trace. While overwhelming, this feeling of smallness is far from unsettling. If anything, it is the impetus to wander and wonder what else comes together to comprise this place. And it turns out that I am not the only thing that is small here. All around me, there are chirps and pips and small flashes of movement. I search for the source of these tiny assertions of life that sound like thunderclaps in the quiet of such an enormous space. I find sparrows and robins, warblers and magpies, eagles and an owl. It awes me that they are even smaller than I am. From our smallness there come moments of consequence. As I watch the birds of Ucross, day after day, wandering through foothills and marshes and endless stretches of this endless expanse, I become infinitely aware that each of these birds is, on its own, an essential piece comprising a larger whole. The smallness makes each one’s life so insignificant. There is one afternoon when I find myself staring at the ground beneath a copse of trees in a rather artist statement