The mountains,there - and the window so close around them they might be inside the room. The curtains might be clouds but for the starlight sheen of milk on flagstone. We breathe the night in on its own very breath. It is in no
book that I have read her, no song I have sung. But it is the first thing I told her when I thought perhaps she could understand: the wind, the wind is the language of God; through the mountains there, and the window…
Originally published in the penwood review, vol. 12, number 1; Spring 2008
