The sky is my garden, though it refuses all fences. By day, the wind tends it, herding clouds and scattering birds across an open blue field.
By night, it blooms righteous. Stars press outward, electrified above the dark strokes of the mountains, steady and unhurried.
They call this Montana, “Big Sky Country,” but the phrase feels far too small. In summer, the air shimmers and bends, sending ravens warping across the prairie. In winter, at twenty below, the sky sharpens to crystal while the frozen lake below groans in reply.
Clouds rise. Clouds scurry. Clouds roil. Clouds pause. Clouds drift away.
It is a garden that grows in motion and color and gesture, and we are only ever passing through.
Fiery Garden
Stormy Garden
Soft Garden
—Mitchell
Hegman
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