My window is open to Montana north, to calm shades of green and humble fences. Who could deny this elegant wind, unpent, graciously carrying the morning sun to my side. Even ninety miles an hour seems a lucid naptime, an easy fall from the majesty of sky kingdom and the trucks roll on...campers with weathered pilots, arms furred gray and wristwatched, wives surfing in the back frying bacon in perpetual motion, tiny dogs panting and dodging things that fly off of the counters...pack of cigarrettes, a plastic mug, a road atlas bookmarked with postcards to Helen and Ron.
My thoughts drift past what my eyes can hold and i hear the voice of one who awaits my return, every word spoken converges in a pyramid of hunger, climbing tasting vertical to an apex of one moment, when we will unite together as three-dimensional beings once again...that moment comes at the end of the longest day, Montana time...counting hills and horses, ticking away clotheslines of color flags, zipping white dashes along the road and the telephone poles march the way home carrying messages over the backs of eartagged cattle.
The rear-view mirror frames my right shoulder and wisps of hair and i am Montana right now, brown and soft, gentle and flowing and immensely honest...in love with the sky which lays over me defining my curves and listening patiently to my song. Montana moves me, virgin fearless, tasting my spirit...
and lets me go home.