a while back we were driving up the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, on the run from, or maybe, for a change, chasing after a who or a what that by now I can't place.
Bob gazed away, up into the mountains. "They'll never hear it the way we did, Stevie," and I wondered what he had heard, and wished he'd keep his eyes on the road or switch with someone.
No comments:
Post a Comment