He cleared his throat opening a book he kept handy in the car to a random page. "There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, A quiet house, some green and modest acres. I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, With only streams and birds for company, To build out of my life a few wild stanzas."
"We finished clearing the last Section of trail by noon, High on the ridge-side Two thousand feet above the creek Reached the pass, went on Beyond the white pine groves, Granite shoulders, to a small Green meadow watered by the snow, Edged with Aspen—sun Straight high and blazing But the air was cool. Ate a cold fried trout in the Trembling shadows. I spied A glitter, and found a flake Black volcanic glass—obsidian— By a flower. Hands and knees Pushing the Bear grass, thousands Of arrowhead leavings over a Hundred yards. Not one good Head, just razor flakes On a hill snowed all but summer, A land of fat summer deer, They came to camp. On their Own trails. I followed my own Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill, Pick, singlejack, and sack Of dynamite. Ten thousand years."
They pulled slowly into the driveway and she turned off the car as he finished, folding her hands. When he finished, she was quiet for a moment before leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. "I love you so much," she murmured quietly.
She got the door open and they got inside. "I'm going to go put Diana to bed," she said quietly. "Okay?"
