Dear Jessie:

As the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming, softly, not to the music, but to something else. Someplace else.

A place remembered.

A field of grass where no one seemed to have been, except for the deer. And the memory is strengthened by the memory of you - dancing in my awkward arms.

Norman

A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean