A Montana Journal, ca February, 2023. She were a dancer. But I never did see her dance. And she were beautiful. That, I seen right off. Impossible not to. I never have got past the stretch of that woman’s legs. Or the darkness of that fine, straight hair coming down over shoulders, laying along a flawless face and wrapping up a tender smile. Or her gentle kindness. Had I been a braver man, or a younger one, maybe then I’d of made a fool of myself. Instead, I suppose, I have saved it for now when age and time make being a fool seemingly more tolerable. And so is the reason for me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, to ride lonely again into these high mountains. Looking to find something, lose something, or at least come to terms. I can’t fully put my mind on it. I still ponder them prospects from time to time, and surely know it is a cowardly heart that did impress the greater influence of fear over deep affection. And only now understand that bad result might have meant ...