Dear Jessie:
As the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots before its descent
into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming,
softly, not to the music, but to somethign else. Someplace else. A
place remembered.
A field of grass where no one seemed to have been, except for the deer.
And the memory is strengthed by the memory of you – dancing in my awkward
arms.
Norman