After I left my fiancé, I was a broken phone, no quarters. Bought a one-way ticket to Montana, a leap of faith, the airport, a collection of cowboys and children. When we found each other, Mike was a beard I pushed my face into before heading to Huson. The persimmon sun still had a little bit of coffee in it. So, this is our street, he pointed out the window, there’s a lama; they got some horses over there. And deer, we got plenty uh deer. One bounced from the roadside into the brush with its tail high and white. And there’s our home. An old yellow schoolhouse set back from the road. But, I need to show you something. We kept on up the hill and as we neared the top, the tree limbs let go of their partners across the street. The sky made room for a gold field full of long grass that breathed in ripples with the wind. Distant mountains rumbled a solid silence, stood with their shoulders strong, blue, so I stepped over a barbwire fence into the field, with my hands asking for something, and because the heads of grass wept their seeds across my knees, I touched them like a box of matches, like I was an oil lamp in all this tinder, like my noisy blood had brought me to burn in the heart of a farmer’s back yard, so I snapped a string of hay around my wedding finger, chewed at the stem, while long necks of grass bobbed their heavy heads at the skin of an orange sky. Alone, in the middle of a golden ocean, I saw the miles of memories, tried to stub out every one as the sun lit the sharp waves of land that crashed throughout. And as the dark opened its slow eye, I knew in all of this deathless dusk, my heart would be the brightest thing I’d ever find.