Sweetgrass. Great Falls. Helena. Through Montana I pass over the Continental Divide twice, north and then south of Butte.
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Helpless
I relived for you each night’s starry southern cross, the white sand of the ocean shore going on for miles and miles against the background of blue seascape, how the sharks were drawn to the sound of the helicopter’s beating blades.
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Time is the split second of faint recognition, and the weak smile that follows.
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I met her in a motorcycle shop in the high desert, where she worked behind the parts counter.
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