The countryside gives less and less attention to houses, more and more to birds, pines, insects, flowers.
A warm Chinook dispenses dusty aromas. In the valley of the shadow of dandelion and clover a mane moves, a horse ripples and glistens.
The road rises niche by niche in the crook of the mountain. I curl up moment to moment, attic to attic. There the stream again almost meeting the wheels. My foot bares at the margin of uncertainty, then slips in. Thoughts of the universe open deep and cool.