Dear Jessie,
As the moon lingers a moment over the Bitterroot's, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming, softly, not to the music, but to something else, some place else. A place remembered. A field of grass where no one seemed to have been, except the deer, and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.
The Bitterroot's are in reference to the Bitterroot Mountains of Western Montana.
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