Drinking in an evening while sipping down a year as a day's ending. With sun setting, keep repeating old retreats. The streets freezing and specters easing from exhaust pipes speak of an emptying, of fatigue, of a face framed in memories of arguments, apologies, in-jokes and glass nights' frost-embossed panes-- of walks down roads well salted of adding salt to stir-fry curries to season
Which? --Not Spring, just yet. Who cares? --Well, me! I'm drinking in an evening Sipping. Gazing out southwestward. I trace with soft eyes a solid skyline. See the Bighorns' darkened profile, backlit with bright fading hinting, half-telling stories promises half making that they'll still be there, tomorrow.
I met those mountains long ago-- I've known them my whole life, you've only seen them. I met them long before you, but they remind me of you and that's not fair.