You knew the end. You know the end. This house a dark, distant dream. Window sashes turn to crows meet the dusk. Blackness descends or rises from the earth, slithering up and out like a vapor, a serpent. I stand a long ways off just watching it take place in my mind. Do the trees lay flat when night arrives? Do they rest supine? Are we privileged enough to know. Crouch in the fallow field, set your hands upon earth all set to freeze. The eye passes through the front door like thread through the eye of the needle. Mind follows. I look around, gathering splinters in my long running fingers.

Remembering [capital] Fall (@ the) Darwin w/ Girlz & Gunz…:

On: Driving the Alcan in November.

I’ve an idea: Happy Thanksgiving.

On Lander, WY:

The winds thin and immediate, harsh because we all know of coming weather. Late leaves scuttle and scratch down the street, looking for avenues of survival. Each exhaled breath a shotgun blast. Each step both the next and last. Winter hangs; is a hand of blacks and whites looking to smother. . Frame after frame passes before the lens of eye. Each house passed on these late season walks is a home only when the lights come on. High in the sky there is a sun in possession of nothing more than light, a completely heatless transcendence. Beneath all is the insistent hum of the earth being earth. We walk when there is nothing else to, because there is nothing else to do.

Right before the grass[es] left:

Island Park, Idaho:

Truck nosing to water’s edge, ducks in scatter like broken love or birdshot. Erin was poise. I was capture. Fumbling, leaping over my own self to grasp at whatever I was seeing. She stands hugging herself, tick of the engine a sort of metronome; each second light draining from the sky, forever washed away. The river takes. Water the third dimension. The horizon a jagged gash of black trees, night coming with the cool ache of season-less late fall. We stand like people stand looking out. Bearing witness.