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 something 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 strengthened by the memory of you – dancing in my awkward arms.
Norman
A River Runs Through It
