This is the face. The face of a poorly equipped immune system. The face of a heavy right foot, and two tightly clenched fist. This is the face of serenity down Highway 168, but a face of disappointment as the snow-capped mountains disappear. The face of amazement as the deep green foothills pass by, the face of reflection of the light gray swirly sky. This is the face of does, this is the face of cattle grazing the land, this is face of horses whipping their tails. The face of suburban expansion east of the last exit, or the face of fallen leaves and bare trees. This is the face. The face of solidity or solemnity, whichever. This is the face of a return to me.