In the part of my mind where God would live, there’s a No Trespassing sign nailed to a tree. Light anxious on the forest floor. Branches in the background, bright as bone fronds. Light enters as from a door to the east. There’s no heartmountain that doesn’t end in a strangle of shadow or air. I took this photograph decades ago, and still the greens are on fire where I keep them framed behind glass, so it is always 8 p.m. late-summer light that falls on me.
The apartment is quiet, I wonder where I’ll go– Paris, Missoula, the other room? I’m un-surroundable. Except by this picture’s miniature song, the way light plays xylophones on the ferns. Shocking really, its stillness. I mean, the music of it.