Driving Through Montana in the Fall

I see why Montana breeds livestock and poets;
The words are woven through the landscape here.
The roads ramble through the valleys,
Pulling the words from the clay soil.

I'm led back to my roots, memories falling around me
Like the soft, yellow tamarack needles.
I'm at peace, and reminded of my childhood;
Wandering the wide meadows, cradled by the mountains.

The electric whir of my day to day life drops away;
I turn off my cell phone, stop checking email.
The bits and bytes fall out of the ether and
Into the cold river water.

I sit back and enjoy the color of the words,
So much like those visions of fall we make as children
That I can almost smell the crayon shavings
Being melted between two bits of wax paper.

Even as children we try to capture the perfect autumn leaf,
Knowing even then that it is fleeting.
As fall reaches its zenith, winter creeps in
And the snow coerces the leaves from the trees.

--From our trip to Jordan, inspired by the scenery just outside of Missoula.


Reading back, this reminds me of one of my favorites excerpts from author Norman Maclean (who also spent some time in Montana):

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."