We exited Interstate 90 on the east side of town. The Absarokas were still wearing their winter white. I rolled down the windows and could feel the katabatic pawing at the air moving past the car as we accelerated, trying to find its way into the cabin. As we hummed over a cattle grid, the wind pushed growing piles of dead brush against a crumbling fence, it’s barbed wire decorated with torn paper and plastic trash streamers. The breeze was fresh, but the sky soft and muted, and the dullish, dun colored light did nothing to emphasize the beauty of the landscape. We had been to Livingston once before, in July, when the summer sun turned every riffle in the Yellowstone into an individual diamond facet and forced us to squint as it danced past, but this was late march and obvious that winter was reluctant to give up the ground it had gained this season. Inching in to town, we passed the Teslow grain elevator, at the time recently spared demolition, a crown of fresh lumber the first sign of its refitting. Downtown stood low slung and sturdy against the wind, and the retro neon’s of The Mint, Murray, and Hiatt House, cast a familiar glow. Trains were stacked up north of Park street, grain hoppers, coal cars, tankers, and graffiti covered boxcars lined up and awaiting orders. I made a quick U-turn west of Gil’s Goods in between a parade of expensive and oversized Chevy and Ford pick-ups, all gleaming tires and chrome grills, and parked in front of the bare bulbed “Bar” marquis at The Murray. Pulling ourselves out of the car, the wind gusted hard, with a sharp edge, reminding us that spring was still not a guarantee. We could faintly hear the clang of couplings and hiss of air brakes as trains were being made up, and slowly moved out of the yard. We swung open the heavy hardwood doors to the warmth of a busy bar. The subdued chatter of the afternoon patrons was accented by polite applause for the young man strumming his Martin guitar, performing a sincere and melancholy version of a Townes Van Zandt song. We sank into our stools as one would a good book, and ordered a round.