When the sun sinks low to the heavy horizon, never to close its stern sleepy eyes, the cascade of shadows sweep across the mountains of the valley where I live until pointed peaked-tops are colored black.
So many settle in the country hills, the isolation of towns spread out for miles, to pick up and leave when their heart feels lonely and to resettle in the sagebrush valleys and pinewood forests of the quiet, cold north.
I think of all the writers, poets, and artists that have hung their vision from the basin and strung their hopes like lassos around stars, who leave behind mid-century furniture in lofty mansions; their fingerprint a smudge dusted on the glass of art shipped off to east-coast cities and high chandeliers dangled from cathedral ceilings.
I think of the slippery darkness and of the silence that is false in its comfort. Those that rest among the hills can only have the echo of their thoughts for so long until the bleeding noise of the city beckons like a green hand.
Until they pick up and leave the oasis among the mountains with too many silent voices.