“What’s it look like to you?”

“A calendar.”

He nodded. That one left.

Another came along.

“What’s it look like to you?”

“A vacation.”

Again, he nodded. 
That one left as well, after awhile.

Time passed.

“So what’s it look like to you?”


He narrowed his eyes.
“What does it sound like?”

She closed hers.
“The wind says ‘go west, young man’.”

He laughed.
“What does it smell like?”

“Dirt and stone after the storm.”

He nodded.
“Now… what does it feel like?”

She glanced over.
“Perhaps a hawk on the wing. 
Or a horse, chasing the sunset. 
The good kind of pain, 
after a hard day in the sun.”

He tipped his hat back.
“What brings you out this far?”

“Got tired of dying.”

He opened the cooler in the truckbed,
let the tailgate down,
took out sandwiches and beer.

“Here. I was saving these.”

They divvied it up, 
and with feet swinging, 
breathed in deep over the valley
as the dogs chased rabbits through the pasture.


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