Bob and Weave

January Dusk in Montana

108 January Dusk in Montana The moon is large, larger than the heart on a child’s sleeve and so bright and sharp in all its edges it bursts—an immense silence— its white hot shards tumbling in the wind over the ridges and ranges of Paradise Valley. But wait, the snow still squeaks beneath my boots. Small leaves of sage, pale green, break the surface. I snap one stem to retrieve its stalwart scent. The headlights of a distant car move slowly over the face of darkness. The travelers do not hear below the momentum of their voices the emptiness beneath their wheels, the earth opening wider and wider. ...