The deer here

hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, as we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to the mountains and to the train. To hills and hills to see things from. At dusk. What a whipping it does, coming, and the train spits at the sky and I just run.