One, not really a man, is Kokopelli, a prehistoric hunchbacked fluteplayer drawn on pottery and scratched in rock walls throughout northern Mexico and the American Southwest. As they walk bare-boned hills and clamor up banks of sand to new vistas, I doubt that these two ever meet. I do not know. We take a cup coffee and move into the backyard. Perhaps we live in a city or town.
Houses surround our house.
Our eyes seek the rim of distant mountains. They are volcanic, rugged, and bare boned, gentled only with distance. Something in us flies out to them, subtle and fast, and something returns. For the rest of the day, we may not think of these mountains again. Still, we will seek them out tomorrow or the next day or the next.