Place Where You Live:

Whitefish, Montana

Two blocks away.

One block away.

Crowd. So many, full of-

Noise: Pants; swishing linen; swashing; jeans scratching, one way on another; cutoffs tugging, pulling, stretching, snapping; swirling purple dress, wishing, bargaining; shouting; conversation quips; the strums of a wayward guitar pleading; running; skipping; flopping leather on grass, sand, dirt; holding onto, standing, reaching with paper; moving into

Color: At first white, white streaked with dirt, and people, wearing, what is that?, polka dots, stripes; flowing flowers, dry purples, pale yellows, and flaming suns with tie-dyed mandalas; baseball caps midnight wolverines, orange glaciers, primary generic sewn WHITEFISH; sweating; muted yellow buttered corn dripping brown lines down my palm; lavender ruby streaked garlic held out by dried valley raisins in a matching pant, dress, I don’t remember; I am distracted, pulled by; the orange caramel brown, crumbles, cookies, black lathered brownies, the young muscled sweating man cutting cream peach tangerine melons; midnight blue baskets of huckleberries sold by laughing purple stained lips, and green, every shade of green, dark pine green ripping into emerald reds of chard, light forgetful green on tufts on pale orange carrots, ruffled pontificating green on the bunches of ancient dinosaur kale, bitter sawdust green on the bottoms of the raspberry baskets; and the red dollops of strawberry fruit. I want it all. I want more than I can

Smell: Soil, dark, coppery earthy, damp,; hands spinning sugar decadent confections; frozen smooth whipped; asphalt waiting; grease dripping, smoke laden, turkey legs; sharp burning salted buttered rising, spicy, fruity full, pungent; kabobs, again, I shouldn’t; so many

Choices. Abundance.

Overwhelmed: Cement. Curb. Life, is about me, pregnant with abundance, pregnant with choice; I am empty thirty dollars but my bag is full. My stomach is full. My mind is about me, full of-

the empty sky, looking, where it grows, bigger and bigger, almost unlimited, except by the cradle of the mountains. Green slumbering giants. Old giants. I want to be old like them, slumbering. In their soft peaks of their glacier strewn garden I see silence. I feel silence. I crave silence. Away from them, I feel the need to be with them. I am lonely at once, empty in the fullness of wanting to be lonely like them. I want to be away from the color and noise and smell. I want to be alone, to digest, to think about wanting to feel this full again; I feel,

Conquered. Out of silence comes noise, again, color; again, smell; again; smiles, laughter; children; flashing glass, dangling, blown, sealed, promises, summer-laden promises, sold, stacked, given, bought, displayed. I am pretty in her mirror, a flash of dichromatic turquoise, like a kinglet, crowned with sapphire rubies at my chest. The crowd about me thins. The sky with me leaves- blue behind for gold; gold behind for silver, and silver on my hand turning into gold, promises of both, noise and
silence, slumber and need, but I am still here, lingering in the in-between of where I am summer and where I am not, this life is only my life for a season. Full of, empty without, mountains turning shadows where I return on the winding road to sleep.