Maybe there were no mountains in Wyoming. The day came cloudy as we passed into a rolling country that had the bus laboring up long inclines then coasting, with the throttle choked, down hills that never seemed to last long enough. The beauty of blown and blasted rock rising out of the grass kept me from anger at the missing mountain, and let me rest. The rock stands, almost, like forgotten pieces of clay. But there are places missed, pointed reminders that the green sea is only a thin veneer over dust.
Bitter spires are like shoulders, fighting, in purpose, in strife, towards the sky.
The stream of erosion is worn on the defiance of those shoulders. He knew enough by now that no matter how he willed it, his legs would tangle, and be the last to leave the blankets. There should be no movement, but the pain was never enough to silence itself in darkness, only enough to make the world weave. The boy raised his eyes, looking for something to touch. Only the girl was there, and she felt, as ever, insubstantial, flowing through this place as though she belonged here.