I'm not sure if I can convey what I'm feeling right now in a manner that doesn't come off as overly dramatic, maudlin or nostalgic, but I am going to give it a go. It's Friday, late afternoon. Annie and I have just relocated ourselves to work from home for an indeterminate stretch. Dinner is done, the dog is fed, and a few shots of smoky mescal are seeping slowly past the blood-brain barrier.

Here's what I know: We'll make it through this, friends. It is my sincere hope that each of you come out the other side with nothing more traumatic than stories of toilet paper shortages. If you need something in these uncertain times, ask. Ask me. Ask Annie. Ask your cranky neighbor. Wash your hands. Shave. Learn how to cook some crazy shit from scratch, something that would make your grandma wink and say, "You've got this, sweetie."

Here's what I hope: I hope that we all learn how important our elders are. I hope that our children learn how fantastically weird and adorable we are. I hope that my troubadour friends hunker down, weather the storm and write frigging amazing songs that help buoy them up. I know that this damned pandemic is going to hit their plans for touring hard, and that saddens me terribly.

In the days ahead, everything will feel eerie. Everything will challenge our sense of normal. Everything will make us ask, "what's next," and we won't be able to answer with certainty. Against all of that swirling uncertainty, pull your collar up snug and lean into the prevailing winds. The crocuses are beginning to bloom. The chickadees are returning. Somewhere in the snowfields of Irish Canyon in northwest Colorado, a few brave wolves are on the hunt. The world keeps turning. Be amazed.

Rob Edward, President
Rocky Mountain Wolf Action Fund
wolfactionfund.com