It happens over and over and over. I point myself toward the mountains. The prairies are consumed; plains devoured like a weakness or a dream. The rock begins to loom, becomes a fixture. The sun is swallowed at higher and higher reaches, bits of light poured down at angles both oblique and completely appropriate. Creeks and streams becomes rampant, clear as the air. Stand and witness as they eternally feed the larger, hungry rivers. We are so lucky to live within. Each time I spring away, the cord reaches capacity and I am thrown, shuttled, and flailed back to geographic home. The fast lights of towns, thick messes of black forest, and the puttering laughter of automobiles is flown through with nary a thought but to hold the fuck on — buy the ticket take the ride. Somehow I’ve come to live in Montana.