The riverbanks are green today: western green, not yellow-bright like the artificial color of a garden hose or lush like an eastern spring. Clouds that pass overhead darken the river like a puddle of solder that has run and chilled. The dogs find fascination in the area, but the world conjured by their noses as they pursue scents is impossible for me to enter.
Even in Wyoming, where the land is necessary to my well being, where I would claim to be at home, I feel that there is another home to which I will never return. This feeling visited me often as a child, and since, whenever I am content or happy. When am I happy? Inside the envelope of dusk, my feet planted firmly on the ground, my sight turned elsewhere by the familiar and the ordinary, by the thousand unimportant things that connect us to other moments in earth’s past. A longing for what was comes from a similar present.
Meaning arises from a match of spirits, from a Persian blue sky that is an extension of the skin, from the noises of the neighborhood. Tires roll on dark asphalt, a dog barks insanely. Windows funnel yellow light from deserted rooms. The night pulls at me with the same soft voice that seduced the child of a radical chemistry, whose thoughts pointed away from home, whenever I paused in the geometry of light that escaped our front door: I remain at the meeting of home and night to feed on the mysterious tide of light and dark, like a fish that rises from the deep to be nourished by the exchange of polar and equatorial waters.