Willsall Montana 2007:
Wet dirt becomes mud, and little grey stones resurface again after their docile winter. (I hardly ever think much of these types of things—you know—that place were you remember old friends, and remember when that fluttering butterfly finally touched upon that lone purple flower in the swaying cattails teaming with nectar. That place where you had been before—were the granite tumbled and mystified you—were the tectonic plates blistered—and were the sky became so big—we had known we found it—and that plane of eternity felt almost certain.)
Bleeding-red dying-orange swirls—the last of the sunlight—fluster in the clouds on the snowcapped mountains above the last of the evergreen and aspen trees. Daylight gives way to moon light and that blanket speckled with little white dots. And the coyote howls at 9 pm on the pastor, behind RJ’s fence—there we realize—we do not care what time it is, nor what year it is.