Management is Prediction.

W. Edwards Deming¹

I

Tuco sits back in the saddle and watches the crows circle out across the valley. 
The stream widens just beyond them.
They caw softly as they watch the ground and brush. Search patiently.

Something holds them to intently watching, circling slowly.

The winter air is crisp this early in the morning.
The horse's breath looks like steam as it curls up
and then fades, swirling away in the breeze.

Tuco shivers, turns in the saddle to look back at the cabin
seeming so small in the snow. It stands taller in the summer
as the leaves set it in shadow and it shows welcome cool from the heat.
Now... small and cold looking.
And empty.

He thinks about his bad habit of over managing,
of trying to anticipate what is unknowable. Then a different unknowable comes in.
Silly thoughts, but seeming so reasonable when he acts.

II

A coyoté calls softly as it ambles along the far side of the stream.
It's just saying hello. Or is it just him thinking there is more to the call than there is?
Tuco smiles at his own silly mood. He wishes the coyoté well with a nod and turns
back toward the cabin.

The cabin suddenly seems large
and warm.
Tuco heads back for coffee and breakfast by the fire.
He sets the impatience of prediction aside.
Today is what it is... what it calls into being.