Enga mellom fjella

Such a pretty day

Such a pretty day

Sun shone the day he died,
rainbow ripples on drying puddles
disturbed by the splash of an errant foot,
now calm.

Life went down
as mountains soared
and rivers ran ... off to somewhere
he'd never travel.

The dead stay planted
under hay and sod
till the grind of the glaciers
reduce rock bone to rock sand
to be borne off by the flood
in the melting.

The sun rose on the day that he died
and then set.

It was such a pretty day.

© 2008 Kåre Enga [165.333] 2008-11-10

The prompt was: it was such a pretty day ...

ME:

I'm sitting here in a moment of sunshine. Tonight the Hellgate Winds may blow upwards of 45 mph and I'll need to return across the Higgins Street Bridge before then. But until then ...

I wrote this to David, partyof5 last Spring or so:

I once wrote that my heart was always in Kansas ... and it was, but the last 4 years in this forsaken town [Lawrence] have killed that love. Once I'm out on the Plains, in the Flint Hills, surrounded by wheat and soybean, corn and milo, I feel that connection again.

Living where I grew up in NY though killed me twice. I don't have enough lives to waste. It's beautiful there ... and totally treacherous for me. Going back is not a great option. Until I feel emotionally safe, I don't even want to visit.

Montana? I felt mixed emotions in Missoula [last December] ... not enough open sky. I loved downtown, the university, the civility of the people, the lack of snobbishness. I could imagine me living there. Gardening in the summer (July 5th through 12th), going to football games, watching the seasons cast their shadows on the mountains. South to Hamilton, over the Sapphires to Anaconda, Butte and Dillon, down to Flathead. But I can't see it and feel it as vividly as the Mid West. I'd still be a fool not to try it for 6 months ...

I understand what you mean about place. My roots want to delve deep. I'm an elm, not an annual tomato plant, not a potted cactus, not some landscaper's prissy pruned bush. I need space to spread my limbs, soil to hold me firm, friends to surround me. I can't do that here. Don't know whether I could do that in Montana. But I do know, I can't do that here [Lawrence].

I have been in Missoula now for 4 months and 11 days. Yesterday Myrt and I took a jaunt down to Hamilton going the back road. We stopped in Stevi-town (Stevensville) for a sticky bun, coffee (and cash for me so I could buy some Irish soda bread and Portuguese sweet bread ... wonderful). We walked around St. Mary's mission, observed the jagged shark-teeth Bitterroots, inhaled the smoke for someone doing a burn . It was a wonderfully calm and mild day ... probably our last.

I could live in either town, but would feel isolated.

Missoula? I'm not a fool to be here. But ... my heart is still pulled back to Kansas. In talking to someone from Iowa the other day I could feel the whisper of corn calling. I will hopefully stay here a tad longer, maybe 4 years. I hear it gets into the blood. I'm working on connections. This town isn't as community oriented as someone said Helena is, nor as friendly as Butte, supposedly. But ... I've only been here 4 months!

And I have geraniums in my windows. I've gone to all the football games and met folks. I've seen the clouds and how they dance around the mountains. I haven't been to Anaconda nor the Flathead yet (met people from both), but I've visited south of Big Timber, and stopped in Hamilton and Butte. I don't know this place yet. And it does not know me. But I'm working on it.

PHOTO:

Stevensville, Montana. The old church at St. Mary's mission with the Bitterroots in the background:

Montana: 47º at 15:00.

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