She writes, or dictates to me, after an offering of western bluebird feathers and juniper berries from my pockets,

Rocky Mountain treasure
Through the open glades
No one has seen them
except you and me.

And she steals my heart and buries it in a small treasure box or a bag, whichever she chooses this time to keep her foundlings. She tells stories to the time of rain falling, and flowers opening and shutting. I cannot keep up.

Working on a current project of live oak wood as hard as steel, I notice my hands get very tight upon closing them tightly. I like the calluses and I am sad that the sanding and planing and planing and sanding is over. There will be more projects after this one, however. I will try to stay in shape.

I have moved into a storage unit. I am waiting for garage bands to play on the weekends. Perhaps I am there at the wrong times for such happy company. The environment is very anonymous, and secrets are kept inside numbered steel doors in neat rows, as if it were really that easy.