The mountains have long stood and guarded the plains, while a thousand summer evenings have sighed and slept. They have seen children created and homesteads blown away by western winds that through the valleys have swept. They judge not but they keep their faces to the light and in the evening they tenderly cradle the stars. Young cattle grow restless in the heat of the night and flushed couples tumble out of crowded bars. I wonder about the secrets of yours that they hold as you lay down amid the debris of another day’s labour.
It is a blow to realise, as a lover of words, that talk can only accomplish so much. Were I to touch the infinite crevices between the stars and leap the dream-deep spaces between waking and childless sleep, I would be no closer to clarity. I could wade the swollen river while gnats frenzy the air and the moon makes the earth dizzy with his deceiving proximity, and I would have gained no ground. You could be right here now, in the doorway, jeans and open pores, weather and silence, a moment the depth of a year, and still I