A local writer bemoans the arrival of so many transplants. Even though he was once one of them.

Why do they keep coming, is my first question, followed by, And when are they going to leave?

I know the answer is, Never, or, Only when they die.

But I keep thinking they might find another place to go — Butte, say, or France, or some other undiscovered paradise, where they can spread their money like manure in fields waiting to be made fertile, all these mid-career consultants, all these artisanal mayonnaise makers, rising up and away like a plague of locusts.

There didn’t used to be traffic

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