A perfect mountain Alberta border night. Camp by Sage creek, a bright Cree half-moon, the Rockies present over there beyond the serrated green forested foothills. Why did I not claim the foothills for my own? They are so deep in my story that I was a foothill, down where the earth underwrites all stories, now publishing baby green spring leaves, chapbooks on alder-frames, all for a moment, and from the "back" (river-side) of the tree shot full with green light, the sun's last will and happy testament. Then last night, which was deep blue with perfect mountainland stars and silent dark pines and over there the tribe around the fire and myself, dipped in the human race and wanting more, to meet you in this dream with a happy nod to swim, off past trees shot with blue sky through, down perhaps the high road of the river.