These elemental: mist and
fire. Next are my mountains.
Yesterday, that girl and
I drove overtop the Continental Divide and then unwound in elevation until we
reached the cabin. The forest
surrounding the cabin stood perfectly still; the pine and fir trees layered
like carvings of jade and ghosted through by mist.
As the sun drew the mist
skyward, that girl and I gathered deadfall from along the roadway in and brought
forth an open fire.
If the sky is my garden, tending
a fire in the mountains is my feast.
There are few things I enjoy more.
That girl feels the same.
We spent most of the day
at the fire, urging flames upright in the cool air, and then drove home by way of several gravel roads. We even stopped to look aground Marysville,
the half-ghost town where my family first scratched into this Montana earth during
the gold rush of the 1860s.
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